Three Days
by Shedemei
Summary: Excerpt: "He was so…troubled…yet his music was so beautiful…how can a soul so dark and twisted produce such loveliness? I have to make sure he lives, if only to compose again…his music of the night…" ALW and Kay based. EC. COMPLETE. PLEASE REVIEW.
1. Preliminary

Three Days

Preliminary (not exactly a chapter…you'll see)

Summary: AU; what if Christine ran back to Erik as the mob approached, just to make sure he survived? And what if she stayed in Erik's kingdom of darkness for three days before returning to Raoul? ALW-based, with Kay influence because I FINALLY READ _PHANTOM_! w00t!

Disclaimer: If I owned _Phantom of the Opera_ and its many versions, Erik and Christine would have ended up together. So needless to say, I don't own any of them. (And if Kay's ending can be construed as Erik and Christine ending up together, I still don't own it.)

Pairings: Erik/Christine (doy)

Author's Notes: I do not like Raoul. He just bothers me…he actually bothers me even more now that I've read _Phantom _(squee!), actually. But I know some people are offended by Raoul-bashing, so there is none in this phic. Besides, I'm saving the Raoul-bashing for a prospective phic entitled _Operation: Fop Removal_ that two of my friends and I are planning.

So, yeah, this phic mainly based on ALW's movie, with a ton of references to Susan Kay's version of Erik's past, most notably in the prologue. For instance, Erik's eyes…I love the idea of Erik having golden eyes, so basically my Erik is Gerik with a worse deformity (though still only on the right side of his face) and really cool eyes. Honestly, I have a bone to pick with the death's-head deformity; how do you survive without a nose, your first line of defense against infection? And how do you sing? Well, he's _Erik,_ I guess that's how. But anyway, I like the idea of Erik being really handsome on one side of his face and deformed on the other; kind of a symbol of his personality—he can be a cold-hearted killer, but his heart is there, and it really does warm up occasionally, especially when Christine is around. Okay, enough philosophy, more phic. Thank you for your patience.

I know this is a bit unconventional, but singing done in this phic will be represented by italics in quotes rather than italics only.

This is only my second phic, and my first non-one-shot phic—though it will have only three chapters, a preliminary, and an aftermath (NOT a prologue and an epilogue—what you are about to read is way too freaking long to be considered a prologue). But still…feedback, please?

* * *

Our story begins as Christine and Raoul sail away from Erik's home. The cries of the mob echo threateningly through the catacombs, momentarily overshadowed by the faint strains of _All I Ask of You_… 

"_It's over now, the music of the night_!"

A frantic shattering accompanied the Phantom's heart-wrenching cry, splinters of glass clinking desperately on the ground like fallen tears. A shudder seized Christine's spine, and her voice broke off mid-note.

Raoul, who had continued their affectionate duet, turned to face her, confusion painted on his handsome features. "Christine, what's wrong?"

"It's…"

The Phantom's voice echoed in her ears. In that single phrase, there was none of the rich, powerful, entrancing voice that Christine remembered, that voice that had once lulled her into a state of tranquil bliss, the air around her pulsating with song. His voice had been reduced to raw emotion—pain and sorrow and anguish in purest form.

"I have to go back." The words escaped Christine's lips before she even knew what she was saying.

Raoul's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"I have to…the mob…" Christine's entire body quivered uncontrollably, as if she were straining with all her strength against the world's heaviest burden. She inhaled deeply. "He deserves another chance, Raoul. To write his music."

"Christine, he's a madman! A murderer! If anything, you should make sure the mob catches him!"

You alone can make my song take flight… 

"Raoul, please."

"He'll kill you!"

"No…he wouldn't hurt me. I have to go."

"Christine…"

"I have to," she pleaded.

Raoul hesitated. "Be careful, Little Lotte." He kissed Christine briefly.

Christine nodded. "Go back to your family's manor. I'll meet you there."

"I love you, Christine."

"I love you," she whispered in reply, then leapt from the gondola.

The icy water slammed into her thin form like a ton of bricks. She gasped aloud, feeling as if scores of freezing daggers were digging into her unprotected flesh.

She struggled through the frigid lake, hardly able to sense the presence of her legs as she pushed forward. Was it really so far back to the lake's edge? The chill deadened all her senses, numbness creeping through her body like a virus. She slogged on, the black ice-cold liquid swirling thickly, forebodingly, around her slender limbs. The expanse of dark water seemed to stretch infinitely ahead of her, Erik's home fading to the faintest distant point of candlelight…

Suddenly Christine stumbled. Caught off-guard, she fell, and her hands met cold rough stone. She had made it.

The young soubrette staggered to her feet. Her knees and ankles trembled uncontrollably. _I heard the mirrors break. Where did he go? _Christine dragged her dead feet forward, step by heavy pained step, towards the destroyed mirrors. Abruptly her legs gave; she crumpled into a heap on the cold floor. She crawled towards her room, the place Erik had set aside for her and her alone…she could rest there, briefly…

She leaned against a short table, fighting to keep her eyes open. God, were her eyelids weighted with lead? The mob's faint cries were not so faint now…the furious words were encroaching, bringing rage, hatred, wrath, enough to rip and tear living flesh to lifeless pieces…

I have to get up… 

Christine faltered as she stood, her hand brushing against something cold and smooth, something familiar…

The Phantom's mask lay on the table's surface. Christine lifted it gently, stroking the white porcelain contours. The mob's howls crescendoed behind her, and she started. What was she doing, dawdling here when a vicious crowd was ready to slaughter her fallen angel? He was a killer, and most definitely insane…but he was going into hiding now; surely he would conceal himself deep in the bowels of the opera house…if the mob didn't catch him…

_He was so…troubled…yet his music was so beautiful…how can a soul so dark and twisted produce such loveliness? I have to make sure he lives, if only to compose again…his music of the night…_

Seized by a new resolve, Christine bolted for the mirrors, the Phantom's mask clutched in one hand. Two of them were cracked badly, damaged by blows with something blunt and heavy. But she saw nothing behind them, no secret passages, no tunnels…_where has he gone?_

Then she spotted it; a deep red satin curtain, draped over what seemed to be a mirror frame. Could that be…?

Christine tore the fabric aside, revealing a stark, unlit tunnel, plunging seemingly into emptiness. _This must be it_…

The mob sounded again behind her, and the screams seemed predatory, inhuman…and closer than ever…without hesitation, she plunged into the darkness, pulling the crimson curtain down behind her. Feeling her way through the channel, Christine staggered down, down, through sharp curves and corners, seeming to plummet into negative space…the blackness was all-consuming, she could see not a step ahead of her…but the stone beneath her feet was solid, if jagged…_he must be here, there's nowhere else he could go!_ Christine's grip tightened on the cold white porcelain in her hand.

Then…suddenly, a dull flicker of golden light, a good distance ahead…

Christine scrambled forward, nearly tripping many times. Whether the Phantom was within a few feet of her or whether it was a trap, it was still _light_, a spot of protection against the murky, threatening darkness…

The singer paused before a small chamber to her right, the source of the warm yellow light flooding into the black passageway. But she had no time to hesitate.

"_Track down this murderer, he must be found! Hunt out this animal, who runs to ground!"_

She heard the menacing cries behind her again…_the mob…oh God, they found the passage!_

Christine burst into the small chamber. The Phantom sat on an outcropping stone bench in one corner, leaning against the wall, the good side of his face toward Christine, eyes closed. There was a candleholder in his left hand, and the friendly golden flame illuminated the liquid diamonds trailing down his cheek. Despite the biting cold, the two folded blankets stacked next to him were untouched. He did not seem to notice her.

She stopped briefly; even in this fallen, heartbroken state, he still clung to that dark majesty that he had once held in Christine's eyes. There was a strange grace in the way his back and head bent under the indescribably heavy burden of shame, a sort of elegance in his sorrow, as if he had experienced it many times before and learned to make it beautiful.

Christine laid a hand on his shoulder. "The mob is coming."

He did not open his eyes or move; his voice startled her when he spoke. "Your point?" His tone was raspy and heavy, the antithesis of its former heavenly timbre.

"They'll kill you!"

"Is that not what you want, my _angel_?"

Christine's lips moved, but no sound resulted. She did not know what she had expected, but certainly not this.

"What are you doing here? Do you wish to watch those pitchfork-bearing idiots impale me, so your haunted mind can finally be at rest? Do you need reassurance that you will never again lay eyes on this abhorrent visage, is that it?"

"No," Christine whispered. "I…wanted to give you another chance. You may have…you…oh, in spite of everything, you were still my teacher for so many years, and I wanted…I thought…the music you write, that you gave me, is so lovely, I can't let that die…"

He stood in one swift, fluid motion, without warning; Christine stumbled backward in shock.

"Do you not have ears, Christine, or has your memory simply failed you?"

Whether or not Christine's memory had failed her, her voice certainly had.

"You heard it a matter of minutes ago. 'You alone can make my song take flight. It's over now, the music of the night.' Or have you forgotten already, the same way you forgot the long, lonely years I spent laboring to make your dreams of singing come true?"

Gingerly, Christine stepped forward. "I did not forget…I was hoping you might find yourself to be wrong, eventually."

He did not reply.

"I found this." She delicately proffered his mask. He took it from her small, outstretched hand and secured it onto the right side of his face.

"Thank you. Now those _gendarmes _and angry opera patrons won't have to see my face when they kill me."

"Not if you run now! Please!"

The Phantom's eyes flickered menacingly; Christine resisted the urge to flinch away. "Is this some sort of twisted game for you, Christine, trying to make me believe you care what happens to this Devil's Child? Is this you seeking revenge for my being so frighteningly in love with you?"

"_Too long he's preyed on us, but now we know the Phantom of the Opera is there, deep down below!_"

Christine could hear the individual voices now, below the raging, clashing chords of the mob's hunting song:

"Kill him!"

"Destroy that monster!"

"Send that demon all the way back to Hell!"

"Killed Piangi and Buquet, that heartless beast!"

"Hunt 'im down!"

The Phantom leaned almost casually against the wall. "Go, Christine. The carnage soon to come will not be a sight any young woman should have to see."

Christine swallowed. She knew he was a murderer, a criminal of the worst kind…so why could she not bear to leave him to his death?

The mob's cries were closer now. Surely they could not have already made it down the long channel, but there were so many of them…

"And what about that lil' slut, that Christine Daaé, who knew where 'e was?"

Christine's blood turned to ice.

"Protected that monster, she did!"

"She's no better than 'e is!"

"We'll find her after we kill _him_! Onward, men!"

"Merciful Heavens," Christine moaned, the color draining from her cheeks. "If they find me…!"

The Phantom rapidly collected the blankets from the stone bench and extinguished the candle flame. "Come. We must hide you."

"Wha…what?"

"_Now_, Christine, you foolish girl! This way!"

Startled by this sudden change of heart, Christine sank into the darkness after the Phantom. But his footsteps receded quickly; she was smaller and slower than he was, especially considering the feeling had not returned to her chilled legs. "Wait! I can't keep up…"

She felt him at her side, swiftly gathering her up and carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all. He was nearly racing down the corridor, somehow easily following the twisted, unpredictable path of the tunnel. "How can you see?" she whispered. "Can…can you see in the dark?"

"I can."

Christine shivered; what sort of person…or animal…could possibly see in this blackness? _He's lived down here for years, of course he has learned to see in the dark…he's a human just like you, Christine, don't be silly._

"We're nearly there. You'll be safe."

Christine was about to query, "Where is 'there?'" when she heard an ominous, crackling rumble above her head. _What in the world_…

The Phantom cursed; then, without warning, he tossed Christine's body into the darkness a few feet ahead of them. She landed feet-first, but her legs crumbled beneath her like those of a rag doll. Her head spun, her limbs ached; what was going on?

She soon found out. The ceiling seemed to buckle under the pressure of an enormous fist, sending blocks of stone and bits of rubble flying. A thunderous crack like the shot of a giant's gun filled the air. Christine screamed.

The Opera Ghost lay prone on the floor, pinned there by stark cold piles of fallen rock, dust fanning out around his still form. For a moment Christine wondered if he was dead or unconscious; but no, he was moving, fighting to free himself from the cave-in.

"Oh God," Christine whimpered, her ears ringing from the crash, imagining her own thin frame buried beneath the rocks. "Oh, God…"

The Phantom struggled to his feet. "Come, quickly. They will be around that last bend any minute now."

"Are…are you all right?" Christine quavered.

"Nothing that won't heal with time." He took her arm, led her a few steps further, leaned his back against a wall, pulled Christine to his side. She felt his fingertips briefly caress her cheek before his hand closed, almost gently, over her mouth. Her first instinct was to fight, but, for a reason she couldn't quite place, she remained completely still and quiet.

Christine felt her body begin to pivot. No, wait, it wasn't her. It was the floor. _The floor was moving_. Panicked, she squirmed against the Phantom's grip, only to feel his arm tighten protectively—not constrictively—around her. "Hush. It's all right."

The wall against which she and the Phantom leaned swiveled until it had made a full 180-degree rotation. They stood facing another small chamber, identical to the one where Christine had found the Phantom; only this room was bigger.

He released her. "We will wait here until the mob is gone."

Christine nodded and sat down on the floor.

The mob came closer. Their songs and shouts of vehemence sounded warped through the stone walls, distorted, animal-like. This mob would tear her limb from limb like a ravenous wolf if she were discovered. She shivered and hugged her knees to her chest.

The footsteps of the mob were encroaching…no, not footsteps, this was a thunderstorm, an earthquake…the discordant yowls of the mob assaulted her ears and hurt, and the livid pounding of their approach shook her entire frame and vibrated in her throat like a demon stealing her voice.

As she stood hesitantly, the floor seemed to tremble beneath her small feet. She crossed the floor to hover near the Phantom, the mob's furious thundering and preternatural yowling creeping closer, closer, like sinister hands crawling along her spine. Quivering, she sank her fingers into his arm. "I'm frightened."

"They won't find us here. You have no cause to worry."

"The noises…it's terrifying…"

"It's all right, Christine. They will be past soon."

The mob was close enough now that Christine should have been able to distinguish individual voices. But there were none. The members of the mob, originally only policemen and angry opera house employees, had blended into one murderous, palpitating, screaming mass of rage and revulsion. A cry of alarm escaped Christine's throat as the horrendous sounds approached, barreling into her brain like a battering ram.

Then the mob roared past the chamber, the full force of their hatred slamming into Christine's diminutive frame like a screeching tornado crashing through the flimsy structure of a man-made house. Her knees buckled; she felt a pair of arms catch her, hold her close.

For Christine, the relief was immediate. The Phantom faced away from wall as he embraced her, the cries of the mob seemingly deflected by his back, hunched protectively over her shaking body. His arms tightly encircled her trembling form like a shield or a thick blanket. One hand slid soothingly through her hair, quelling the worst of her tremors. The mob's storm of footfalls had dwindled to a sound rather like a light rain shower.

The Phantom held Christine firmly, loathing her quakes of fear, and mentally cursing the mob for frightening his beloved. The soft swell of her chest rose and fell frantically with her panicked breathing, and her heart raced hysterically as if it were trying to tear loose from her ribcage. As he began stroking her hair, her shudders slowly receded as she leaned, relaxed and motionless, against him as the mob pounded by. She did not move, even after the long, horrendously loud minutes of the furious crowd's passing were over.

Her arms were wrapped securely around his neck. Almost without thinking, he pressed a hand gently into the small of her back, bringing her closer, and she nuzzled his shoulder like a cat.

_Release the poor child, you selfish creature! You think she enjoys being held by a monster?_

He let her go, and the stumbled backward almost hesitantly, eyes glazed slightly. "Are they gone?" she whispered.

"They have passed. But they have not abandoned their search."

Christine nodded slowly, the glassiness retreating from her dark hazel orbs.

"You ought to rest until they have given up." He turned away from her, resting his forehead against the cold stone of the wall.

Behind him, Christine gave a strangled cry.

Startled into concern, the Phantom turned. "What's wrong, angel?"

"You're hurt."

It was only then that he realized his back had been badly scratched and cut by the cave-in. "So it seems."

Christine carefully brushed aside the torn bloody cloth covering his wounded back. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Not particularly."

"Let me see."

"I would advise you not to do that, Christine."

"Why not…? Oh!"

Christine jerked away in shock. His back was crisscrossed with the profanely white and shiny lines of injuries never quite healed. The ragged stripes screamed across his ravaged skin like a wake of destruction left by some horrific natural disaster. She felt him flinch away as she laid her fingertips against one of the longer scars. "What happened to you?"

"You do not want to know, Christine."

"I know very little about you. I don't even know your name."

He was silent.

"You…have a name, don't you?" Christine could have kicked herself when she heard how idiotic she sounded. _Of course he has a name; don't be stupid! He'll think you have the same intelligence level as an insect…_

"My name is Erik."

"Erik," she repeated quietly. "It suits you."

Again, he said nothing.

"Where…where did you get all of those scars?"

"Why is it so vital that you know?"

"I want to know who was beating you. That's what happened, isn't it? That's what it looks like."

"Yes." Unconcerned, he struck a match and relit his candle.

"Who? Why?"

"It is not important."

"Erik, please, tell me. I want to know." Christine laid her hand on his arm.

He turned. "Christine Daaé, you are soaking wet."

Christine abruptly realized that he was right; her gown was dripping on the floor, the damp fabric clinging to her near-heatless body.

"You'll catch your death like this."

"I…I don't have anything to change into."

"Wrap yourself in a blanket, then." He lifted a folded blanket from the short pile, and Christine saw that there were only two of them. Something soft and glittering dropped onto the stone, and recognition flashed across Christine's mind.

"My Aminta dress!" Christine picked it up. "I put it down with this blanket when I changed into this…goodness, that was lucky!"

Erik leaned against the wall, facing away from her. "You may change. I won't look at you."

Christine stripped off the once-glorious white bridal dress and slipped into the gown she had worn in _Don Juan_. The frock was thin and rather scanty, and she shivered, goosebumps ravaging her bare arms. "I suppose I'm not wet anymore, but I'm still so cold."

She felt one of the blankets rest upon her near-bare shoulders. "Keep that around you. I won't have you catching cold. It gets to be frigid in these caverns."

"Thank you," she whispered, wrapping the thick cloth around her body. _He has such concern for me, and none for himself. If I hadn't found him, he would have let the mob tear him to pieces? Am I all he lives for? Surely that can't be right!_

"I don't want you falling ill. I don't know how long we will be down here, so if you sicken, I won't have any way to cure you."

Christine lowered herself to the floor and tugged on the blanket's corners until she was completely encased in it, with only her head protruding from the dark brown tent. "What happened to your back, Erik?" she questioned softly. "Where did you get all those scars?"

"Insatiably curious, are you?"

"Yes. Please, tell me. Is the story so terrible that you are trying to shield me from it?"

"You might say that. But in any case, you do not need to know."

"Don't you trust me, Erik?"

"Trust is not the pertinent issue here, Christine, which is lucky for you, as I tend not to trust people who have attempted to have me killed."

Christine flushed, a sharp pang of guilt piercing her chest like a needle. "I came back, didn't I?"

"After betraying me with a useless slave of fashion, exposing my face to an entire audience, playing the central role in a plot to have me shot like a rabid dog, and dashing any hopes I had of companionship, yes, your guilt forced you to return simply because you love my pretty music." The last two words might have been dragged through an ocean of liquid sarcasm.

Christine forced her vocal chords to produce sound. "That's not…that's not the only reason why I returned…"

"I don't want your pity, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"So that's why you won't tell me why your back is so scarred? You don't want me to pity you?"

"How astute of you to realize that. No, I do not want—nor do I deserve—your pity, sympathy, whatever you wish to call it."

"Then what is it that you want from me?" The young singer cried.

There was a pause, long and viscous and ugly, blocking out even the semi-distant shouts of the mob. Erik whirled to face her at he spat out the next words. "Do you truly want to know the answer to that question?"

"Yes!"

Erik's response reminded Christine of a river that had been reduced to a mere stream during a drought, then swelled to the size of a flood with the onset of rain. "Very well. I'll have you know, little one, that loneliness makes for a very bitter traveling companion, especially when she becomes your shadow. I became used to the loneliness, though…until I laid eyes on you. Since the moment I first heard you sing, I knew you must be as devoted to music as I am, for you had such _talent_…you were unpolished, yes, but your voice had much promise…but you lacked inspiration. You needed the Angel of Music that your father had promised you. So I became your teacher and your protector, hoping to gain your trust and nurture your extraordinary voice. Foolish, egotistical creature that I am, I should have simply guided you and your singing from behind that mirror in your dressing room, rather than entertaining the impossible fantasy of you ever wishing to spend your time with a monster. Understand, Christine, that it is difficult for any man to simply watch the one he loves from afar, playing the part of some distant, discarnate mentor…yet still, I should never have approached you in person, and for that, I apologize." He exhaled deeply, as if half-ashamed and half-relieved at his own words. "Is that explanation enough for you, Christine? I wished for a companion, an ally, a partner of the soul."

"You've claimed to love me," said Christine almost gently. "And you wished for my feelings in return?"

The corners of his mouth twitched, perhaps in a restrained smile. "Perhaps in my most mad and farfetched dreams, yes."

"But you did think I cared for you," Christine protested. "You claimed that your deformity was poisoning _our _love. Not yours, ours."

"You know perfectly well I was not thinking rationally when I said that." His voice was turning hard and cold as the stone floor where Christine sat. "And you never answered the question: was it explanation enough for you?"

"No. You still haven't explained how you came to have those horrid scars."

"You have the gift of non sequitur, Christine."

"I want to know!" Christine resisted the urge to lurch to her feet and stamp her foot, which would only serve to make her an immature child in Erik's eyes.

"That much is apparent."

Christine lowered her eyes, forcing her voice to remain level. "Please. I truly wish to know what happened to you. Please."

There was another pause, this one nearly not as impenetrable as the other. Christine felt Erik kneel at her side. "If you truly want to know, angel, then I will tell you…if only because you are so relentless in your curiosity."

"Tell me." Hesitantly, Christine extended a hand and wrapped her small fingers around his wrist, as if to comfort him. He quickly moved his arm away from her touch, but began his explanation anyway.

"I was eight years old when I ran away from my home. I ran across a band of gypsies during my flight—curious, they looked beneath my mask. Of course, they decided to use me as an exhibit in the freak show section of their traveling fair."

Christine made a sound like a whimper. Erik ignored her and continued. "I lived, mostly, in a cage. I was kept like a wild animal, and my keeper's name was Javert. To paraphrase what you wish to know about the time of my life when I traveled with the gypsies, Javert was…quite cruel to me."

"He beat you." Christine's voice was barely audible.

"Yes."

"And that is where the scars came from…"

"Your powers of deduction are astounding."

Christine disregarded the sarcasm. "Oh, God…" she reached for him, but he drew away from her.

"Don't waste your pity on something like me, Christine."

"Why do you refer to yourself like that? Calling yourself something instead of someone?"

"It is not so different from the way you and your lover speak of me when you think I can't hear."

Christine bit her lower lip; this was, after all, quite true.

Erik got up. "You have been through quite a lot tonight, Christine. You should rest."

"I am tired," she admitted demurely.

He took the other blanket and laid it on the floor, folding down one edge like a pillow. "It's better than the bare floor, at least."

Christine crawled onto the blanket and lay down. A few of the mob members stalked down the corridor, intermittently banging on the walls with clubs or some other kind of weapon. "You expect me to sleep in this setting?"

"I won't touch you while you're sleeping."

"I was referring to the mob!"

Erik knelt beside her again. Christine held herself still as he reached for her, then let her eyes drift shut as his long fingers caressed her scalp, tousling and gentling her dark curls. Christine sighed happily.

"I must admit, Christine, I have never seen anyone respond so dramatically to simply having their hair stroked."

"It's so soothing," the singer purred. "When Meg and I brushed each other's hair before performances, Meg would complain that I always fell asleep."

"I see." Erik massaged the back of Christine's head gently, and she bit back a most unladylike groan, leaning back into his hand. "Sleep, my child."

Christine had no trouble at all obeying. Her eyes already shut, her other senses became dark and numb one by one, and she let the welcome black cloak of sleep enfold her.

* * *

Christine dreamed of fire. 

The stage of the Opera Populaire was in flames, great ravenous monsters of crimson and gold and rusty orange and even pale merciless blue. Christine's eyes searched frantically for an escape route, but there was no backstage, no audience, no curtain, nothing…just fire, leaping and roiling and howling and roaring and devouring and burning, burning everything.

The shimmering, golden swirls of Christine's skirt merged and danced with the fire.

Shrieking, she jerked away.

The starving flames reached for her, as if with sentient hands. Christine beat at the hungry flares, clinging to the prayer that she could extinguish the fire…

She wasn't burning.

Morbidly fascinated, Christine bent and ran a hand through a fluttering yellow plume. The flame licked and caressed her hand with its warmth, but her skin remained completely unscathed.

"Christine!" She turned at the sound of a cry behind her. It was Raoul.

"Raoul!" Her beloved childhood friend embraced her tightly.

"Christine, hurry, we have to get out of here,"

"Yes," she agreed, gripping Raoul's hand and following him.

"Christine, quickly!" Raoul led her across the flaming stage. The fire flickered against his pant legs, but again, the fire did not catch.

Suddenly Christine froze. "Wait! Erik must still be here…"

"Erik?"

"The Phantom. He must still be here." She bolted from Raoul's side, ignoring the fact that he was calling frantically after her.

A shot panicked search later, Christine found him. He was trapped in a clear circle where the flames seemed unable to reach.

"Erik!" Christine cried, her voice barely audible over the hissing and growling of the conflagration.

He glanced up at her, his golden eyes startlingly serene behind the black Don Juan mask. "Christine." His voice was quiet and reverent, like a prayer.

"Erik, it doesn't burn! Look!" Christine passed her hands through the flames. "It's all right! Come with me!"

Christine stepped into the circle, and Erik gently laid two fingertips on her cheek. She extended one hand to him, the same way he had led her through the mirror the evening she had first heard the music of the night. Trusting her, Erik reached out and clasped her hand.

In that one brief instant, the protective circle around Erik vanished, and the flames that had complacently ignored Christine and Raoul attacked him with a vengeance. His cloak brushed against the fires and caught, the famished saffrons and oranges devouring the cloth. With a scream, Christine tore the cape from his back, but she was too late; his entire body was crawling with flame. Christine wailed, tugging on Erik's hand, trying to pull him free of the spitting flares. He did not move. "Hush, Christine. There's nothing you can do."

"No!"

"Christine, go."

"I won't! I won't leave you!" She grasped both of his hands tightly.

Erik smiled thinly as he turned to ash before Christine's eyes. "You already have, my angel."

"No!" Christine's screech merged with the victorious howls of the fire. "NO!"

* * *

"No! Erik…please, no!" 

Christine woke thrashing on her blanket. Erik turned to face her, and she couldn't for the life of her read his expression; was he concerned? Disgusted? Angry? Ashamed?

"What in th' name o' Old Clootie was that?" bellowed the drunken slur of a mob member's voice.

"That was a scream!"

"The monster's got her behind the wall!"

"I'll lay odds he's torturing her!"

"Come on, men! Break down the wall! We'll get 'em!"

"Sweet glory," Christine whimpered.

"On your feet, Christine. We can still escape them."

"But how?"

"Take the blankets, and your dress."

"Erik…!"

"Come here."

Erik was standing beside one wall, holding something protruding from the stone—a loose brick? A lever—and beckoning. She hastened to his side, clutching the blankets and the discarded wedding dress.

"Hold on. Don't cry out."

Christine obediently wrapped her arms around him, restraining a whimper as the wall through which they'd entered began to crumble under the berating cudgels of the mob.

Erik yanked the lever.

It took every ounce of her self-control Christine possessed to not scream as the floor dropped out from under her.

They landed quickly, contrary to the endless fall Christine had been expecting. Erik moved swiftly to another lever and jerked it, causing the trapdoor to slide shut. They were safe.

The wall to the chamber above them gave, and a rumble like thunder reverberated in Christine's ears as the phantom-hunters flooded the upper room.

Listening to them trundle by was nothing compared to this. The grinding and pounding and stomping and shouting and growling sounds above her were unbearable, the vibrations invading her every joint and painful spot. It was as if the crowd was crawling over her scalp, chastising her brain with their torches and clubs…breaking through her skull, drilling into her thoughts…she battled back a cry of agony, tangling her hands in her dark damp mane. "Erik…"

He ignored her.

Christine's heart was beating so rapidly, it seemed to rise into her throat. She reached to squeeze Erik's shoulder. "I'm frightened."

"I would imagine you feel like a rabbit hiding in a fox's hole to escape a hunter." His voice was cold enough to freeze water in the full heat of summer.

"Please…they sound so horrible! It scares me."

A furious cry sounded from above. "Where are they, the devils?"

Christine plastered herself against his back. She fiercely pressed her eyes shut; she would not allow herself to cry, not even as the voices of the mob shredded her insides. She would not cry, she would _not_ cry…

She felt Erik turn then, felt herself sink into the soothing, now-familiar embrace. He seemed to know that the horrendous noise was ravaging her mind; he passed a hand over the crown of her head, mussing and then smoothing her hair. The torturous throbbing and pricking sensations vanished instantly, and she heaved a sigh of relief. Erik's other arm was wrapped closely over her small back, stilling the spasmodic shivers that tore across her spine.

Christine reopened then closed her eyes, her long curled lashes brushing his chest. His heartbeat was close, steady as a drum; the murderous crowd might as well have been in the Americas of the Far East.

Christine did not know how long she remained in Erik's arms. But she became gradually aware that the crowd's racket was gone from above her. _Now that they're gone, is he going to let me go?_

"Hold me," she whispered fiercely, and it was not a plea; it was an order.

Erik said nothing, and he did not release her. Christine slipped her arms around his neck. "Thank you."

Without any warning, he jerked away from her. "You have nothing for which to thank me."

"What? That's twice tonight you've saved my life!"

"Let's not forget what else I've done, Christine. I kidnapped you, terrified you, nearly murdered the person you love, and nearly got you killed. I find myself unable to fathom how you can bear to be in the same city as I."

"But when I screamed, and drew their attention…that was my fault. You're not…angry at me for that, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Any woman has the right to scream when they dream of being ravished by a monster."

Christine blinked; she had not expected that sort of reply. "But…I dreamt of the opera stage on fire. I was there, and Raoul, and the fire couldn't burn us…" The full memory of the dream returned in a rush. "You were trapped! I tried to help you to safety, I tried, but you were burning, and I couldn't stop it, I couldn't do anything…!"

"Christine!" Concerned, Erik took her by the shoulders. "Calm yourself. It's all right."

"I…I know. But I have to ask…well, you seemed quite certain you knew what I was dreaming."

"Don't you think it's a plausible nightmare?"

"Do you?" Christine paled.

"That's not what I meant, angel." He placed a comforting hand on her cheek. "You have to know, Christine, I would never do such a thing to you." His eyes were intense enough to light a candle at twenty paces. She shivered.

"Well, that's…good to know." Christine's tongue stumbled over the words. "But…the things I've heard…in the end, you are still a man…"

"I would _never_ rape you, Christine, because I know how terrible it is."

Her eyes widened until they were large as sand dollars.

"Is that…is that possible?"

"Trust me, it is."

"But what…who…?"

"It was Javert, my cage-keeper. Don't look so worried, Christine, I stabbed him and ran before…before anything happened." A tight smile stretched his lips. "My first murder. I was twelve."

Remembering his disdain for pity, Christine did not say anything; she took his hands from her shoulders and held them tightly. "I realize how little I know about you now. For-for instance, did you build these chambers?" she questioned, hoping to change the subject.

"I designed them, yes, but I did not build them all myself. You likely gathered that, considering that one of the walls collapsed."

Christine could not hold back a small laugh. "So, on top of music…you're an architect?"

"I designed this opera house." The simple statement was nearly devoid of emotion, but Christine detected the faintest swell of pride.

"You did? That's…amazing."

"Thank you." His voice was odd, as if he were unused to compliments.

"What else have you designed?" Her voice was so eager.

"I did much work for the shah of Persia."

"Persia?" Christine's eyes were wide, like those of a child enraptured by a fairy tale.

_A fairy tale—ha! If only she knew…_ "Yes."

"What is it like there?"

Erik's eyes darkened. "Perhaps we should save that story for later."

Christine quickly saw that she had inadvertently struck a nerve. She nodded. "I understand. I have another question."

"Yes?" There was something distant and guarded about his reply.

"Why did you kill Joseph Buquet?"

Erik sighed. "He was killed in one of my traps." (A/N: Erik is not lying here. This is a reference to Kay's book rather than ALW's movie.)

"Traps?"

"Yes; one of the traps protecting my home. When the idiots who run my theater disobeyed my command to give you the lead in _Il Muto_, I used Buquet's body to frighten those fools into obeying. However, I succeeded only in frightening you." The hand on her cheek wandered almost instinctively to her hair, twining a few of her silky curls around his musician's fingers.

A twinge of guilt pierced Christine's chest. _That was the night I said I loved Raoul—I ran to him because I was so frightened of Erik. Thank God he doesn't know what I said about him when Raoul and I sang to each other on the roof!_

"Erik, I'm sorry," Christine tried to say, but her sentence was cut off by a rather sizeable yawn. She clamped one hand over her mouth, ashamed.

"You're tired."

"Yes…"

"Let me help you."

Erik rewrapped Christine on one blanket and fashioned the other into an impromptu bed again. Christine slowly lowered herself onto the cloth. "What about you?"

"I sleep very little. I have always found the nighttime far too exquisite to waste on sleep."

"The night is beautiful," Christine agreed, settling down onto the makeshift mattress. "But I do need my sleep."

Erik curved his palm around the back of Christine's head, stroking and soothing. Christine sank her teeth into the pillow to muffle the soft moan that rose in her throat.

"You truly are sensitive, aren't you?"

"Mmmm…"

Abruptly Christine froze. _What would Raoul say if he could see this? Me just lying here while the infamous Opera Ghost toys with my hair?_

"Christine? Are you all right?" The warmth of his hand was gone from her scalp.

"Yes…I just…I'll fall asleep on my own."

"I see." There was absolutelyno inflection in his voice. Christine hated it when he spoke that way; he sounded so cold, so…dangerous. She flinched. "Sleep well, then. I will wake you when it's safe to leave." He left her side and knelt against one of the walls, looking away from her. She watched him hesitantly, as if waiting for something. He never once glanced in her direction; he stared either at the wall or into space, occasionally running a hand through his hair.

She turned her face into the blanket, and found herself missing Erik's hand caressing her hair. _Stop thinking that way. You have to run back to Raoul as soon as Erik releases you._

It took much longer than optimally possible, but Christine finally succumbed to sleep.

* * *

"Christine?" 

A voice was calling her name. And the voice was incredible…quiet, yet with so much power and emotion, and sinuous and sibilant as the flowing of water.

"Christine, wake up. They are gone."

It was Erik.

She stirred. "How long was I asleep?"

"Two hours, more or less. Now, come."

Christine stood. She found that her entire frame was trembling violently. The cold air had seeped into her bones and was chilling her through and through.

"You're cold."

"Y-yes." Her teeth were chattering. Erik wound the blanket closer around her body.

"It's all right. You'll be warmer soon."

He unlatched the trapdoor and helped Christine climb into the upper chamber, then followed her. He took her gently by the shoulders and led her through the gap in the ruined wall and the lightless passageways. This time, though, he was carrying the candle, so Christine could see much better than able to during their first mad flight.

_Why must he be so tender with me? It would be so much easier to hate him if he didn't treat me so well._

"Are you unwell, Christine?"

"I'm just tired…and still cold."

Erik held Christine a little closer. "I apologize, but it does get quite cold in these catacombs. I try to keep my home a bit warmer."

"Good!"

"We're nearly there."

It was only a minute or so later that they stepped into the dim light of Erik's underground kingdom.

Christine lifted a hand to her mouth. "Oh no…"

The mob had ransacked nearly everything. Erik's once stately, elegant home was a shambles: candles blown out or knocked over, papers shredded, furniture strewn about and toppled…the irate crowd, so bent on destroying Erik, had destroyed his home as well.

"Thank God they didn't damage the organ!" Christine cried.

"Their main goal was to capture me…they did not have much time to completely demolish this place." Erik said dryly. "It will be an irritating mess to clean up, but there is probably no irreparable damage." He removed his arm from Christine's shoulders; this did make her feel colder, and she buried the lower part of her face in the blanket, as if that could warm her up. "However, that isn't what I'm worried about." Erik's eyes scanned the scene with something like fettered panic. "Where is she…Ayesha!" he called suddenly.

"Who is Ayesha?" queried a mystified Christine.

A piercing, high-pitched, mewling noise sounded from a few feet away. It was…a meow?

"Ayesha!" Erik shouted again. Then, from beneath the pipe organ, skittered a cream-bodied, dark-faced Siamese cat with large pointed translucent ears and enormous sky-colored eyes. A glittering bejeweled collar was fastened aroundher neck.

Erik knelt on the floor, opening both arms to the cat. The Siamese leapt into his arms and immediately began to purr like a train. She arched her back in undisguised joy as Erik scratched her ears. "Ayesha, my dear little feline, I was frightened they'd hurt you…" He was laughing, actually _laughing_, as the cat's rough pink tongue licked the unmasked side of his face. The sound of Erik's laugh was completely foreign to Christine…though it was a little like hearing him sing again, she supposed…it was a sound that shone and glistened like liquid happiness.

Christine briefly wondered if she were dreaming.

Erik stood, still holding the cat. "Christine, this is my cat, Ayesha. Be careful—the doesn't often take kindly to strangers."

"She's adorable!" Christine extended a hand to the cat, who sniffed the outstretched hand and gave it a curious—but rather indifferent—lick.

Without caveat, Christine's exhaustion suddenly overcame her, and she leaned against Erik for support.

"You look exhausted. Do you want to stay the night here? I doubt you have energy for a carriage ride home."

"Yes…I can leave in the morning then…" Christine's words slurred with weariness.

"You aren't leaving…"

"What?" yelped Christine, alarmed. A startled Ayesha leapt from Erik's arms and bared her teeth at Christine, hissing menacingly.

"Let me finish my sentence, Christine. I want you to stay here for three days—just three days out of your entire life. Word will be sent to the Chagny boy assuring him that you won't be harmed and that you will soon return."

"Why?"

Erik inhaled deeply before replying, as if steeling himself. "It is my finest dream—my life's dream—for you to stay permanently. However, as that is likely your worst nightmare, I would only have you remain here with me for three days, so I can at least have some impression what it might be like to have you at my side."

Memories flashed across Christine's mind: Erik's selfless rush to save her, his long fingers gliding through her hair, the surprising solace of his embrace as the mob's horrid noise assaulted her senses. Would staying here for three days—out of a lifetime of days—be so terrible? And if Raoul knew she was all right, what was the harm? "That's…that's fair."

"You should be the one to write the note to your lover, then. He would panic if he received a note signed 'O.G.'"

Christine nodded drowsily. Erik helped her to his desk, where she sat and penned her letter of reassurance:

_My Dearest Raoul,_

_Please do not fear for me. I have promised Erik—that is his real name, Erik—that I will stay with him for three days. He will treat me well, I know; in spite of everything else, he does care about me. I will return promptly after the three days are over._

_All My Love,_

_Christine Daaé_

She folded the note in half and handed it to Erik. "I presume you would like to sleep now," he mused as he took the paper.

"Yes, please."

"I will have your letter delivered after you are asleep."

"Thank you."

Erik lifted Christine's body carefully and carried her to the black swan bed. Christine sighed happily as he laid her down on the silky sheets. She turned onto her side and felt the covers come to rest upon her still-quaking form.

"Christine, are you still cold, or do I simply frighten you?"

"I'm cold…I can't seem to get warm."

Wordlessly, Erik stood, and Christine could barely hear his retreating footsteps. He returned not a few seconds later to drape two more blankets over his beloved's frame—the blankets they had taken into the tunnels? Christine was too drained to care.

"Sleep well, my an…Christine."

She may have been asleep even before her eyes slipped shut.

* * *

"_Raoul, I've been there! To his world of unending night, to a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness, darkness…_"

_Please let this be a nightmare_. The bitter thought was the first thing that flitted across Erik's mind as he woke. After a few seconds of drowsy confusion, he realized that he was actually hearing Christine's voice. It was not a nightmare; she was singing in her sleep.

Erik got up laboriously; he had fallen asleep at his organ after sending a delivery boy to the Chagny manor with Christine's letter, then sneaking into Christine's dressing room (it was singed, but not destroyed) to fetch some of her belongings.

"_Raoul, I've seen him! Can I ever forget that sight?_" Her voice quavered; not with vibrato, but with fear and discomfort and vulnerability.

Erik brushed aside the luxurious silver curtain that separated Christine's room from the rest of his home. The sight before him made him wince in shock and concern; the young woman resting on the bed was twitching and tossing in a nightmare, her cheeks flared and bright, her skin clammy and damp, her dark hair clinging to her sweaty scalp. Ayesha, who could tell, in that unearthly way that cats could, whenever anyone was sick, was seated at the foot of the bed.

_This is no ordinary nightmare…look at her, she's ill, she could be delirious…_

"_Can I ever escape from that face? So distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face in that darkness…"_ Christine broke off and coughed weakly. "_Darkness…_" Her voice snapped in the middle like brittle bones.

_Must she be singing _that? _I need no reminder of thatdamned night when I first heard her declare her love for that useless boy...although I suppose that she imagines he is near, and she needs him to comfort her… _"Christine?"

Her lovely cocoa-colored eyes snapped open; they were horribly brilliant and glazed with fever. "Who's there?"

Erik said nothing. If he identified himself correctly, she might panic.

Christine blinked, and her glossy eyes found his. "Erik?"

"Oh, Christine…" His voice was quiet, compassionate. _I was afraid she would sicken, wearing that wet dress in those cold chambers, but I didn't expect it to come on this quickly!_

"Erik, I'm cold, so cold…" Her white hands gripped his shirtfront with a strength Erik would never have anticipated.

"Shhh." Erik stroked her hair and her face, trying to soothe her. Heat radiated from her skin, as if there were fires raging inside her. "You're burning up."

"No, no, Erik, I'm freezing, I'll die, please…"

"You have a fever, my child. I have something that will bring it down. Wait here."

"No! I need someone here…don't leave me. Don't leave me. Don't leave me!" Her frantic voice rose in pitch with each repetition. "I'm so _cold_…" Her teeth chattered like the death rattle in a moribund person's lungs.

"Hush, my angel, hush…" Erik took her hot shaking hands, lightly massaging the supple blazing skin. "Do you want to get warm?"

"Yes. Yes."

"Then lie still. I'll be right back, I promise."

"No! Don't leave me!" Christine shot up in bed, her soft matted curls clinging to her flushed, perspiring face.

"Christine! It's all right. Lie down, little one, lie down. I'll be right back, I promise." She stayed stiff and upright, still trembling, her fingers cleaving desperately to his. "_Rest, my angel,_" he sang to her gently, letting the silky tones of his voice work their magic on Christine. Slowly, her muscles unknotted and she sank back into the covers. He let her hands fall back to her sides and swiftly bolted from her side, hastening to the cabinet where he kept his many concoctions. After a quick search, he selected of the vials, grimly listening to Christine's pleading, delirious, quaking voice floating through the caverns:

"Raoul, I'm frightened. Don't make me do this. It scares me. Don't-don't put me through this ordeal by fire! He'll take me, I know! We'll be parted forever…he won't let me go…he won't let me go…what I once used to dream…I now dread…if he finds me it won't ever end! _And he'll always be there singing songs in my head, he'll always be there singing songs in my head…_" Christine's voice slipped into a helpless cry.

Erik hesitated, leaning his forehead against the closed cabinet door. _She thinks that boy is beside her…when did she say this, I wonder? Was it before _Don Juan? _God, was I truly that cruel to her? Did I frighten her so terribly? Poor angel, she never deserved any of this horror…look what I've done to her…_

He walked slowly back to the ailing girl lying restlessly on the bed. Her eyes were blank and unfocused, her breathing ragged and heavy. The sight of her so listless and uncomfortable released an arrow of sympathy and unease into Erik's heart. Whatever disease had invaded Christine's innocent body, he loathed it with all his being.

A faint whisper passed her parched, cracked lips: "Don't make me do this…" Erik reached to take her hand, but drew back.

"Ange…Christine?"

Her eyes rolled in his direction. "Yes?"

"Here. This is a mixture of herbs. It should bring your fever down." Crouching at the bedside, Erik splayed one hand behind Christine's thin back and helped her to sit. She took the small vial in both unsteady hands, and Erik uncorked the crystal flask to tip half its contents down her throat.

"Thank you."

"Now, sleep. You will feel better in the morning." He moved away from her.

"No! Erik…stay with me. I need you. Or I'll freeze."

_You would die of fear and shock upon waking if I stayed, little one._ "I can't, Christine."

"Why?" she moaned. "Erik, please, I'm so chilled, blankets aren't enough…"

_Curses! I can't leave her like this…now what?_ "Ayesha!" Erik called over his shoulder, and the Siamese leapt over to him with a lilting, questioning meow. "Stay with Christine. Keep her warm."

Ayesha quizzically tilted her head to one side, one of her massive ears twitching.

"Ayesha…"

With a switch of her tail, the svelte animal turned to affectionately nuzzle Christine's nose. Christine gave a weak smile and stroked Ayesha's head as the cat curled up with her head under the sick girl's chin. "That's better," the young singer sighed.

"Good night, Christine."

Christine's face was buried in Ayesha's thyme-scented fur; Erik barely heard her reply. "Good night."

Erik slipped out of the room and adjusted the sheer velvety curtain. He remained standing there for a few seconds, watching Christine's now-peaceful slumber, before turning away.

* * *

A/N: How could I not put Ayesha in there? I love her, honestly…she bit Raoul! Yay! And she reminds me of my cat, who has a special mournful meow for whenever I leave. And, yes, I know this was really, really LONG; it will likely be the longest chapter-type thing in this story. 

REVIEW!

…please?

-GT


	2. Day One Part One

Three Days

Day One: Ambiguity  
Part One

Summary: AU; what if Christine ran back to Erik as the mob approached, just to make sure he survived? And what if she stayed in Erik's kingdom of darkness for three days before returning to Raoul? ALW-based, with Kay influence because I FINALLY READ _PHANTOM_! w00t!

Disclaimer: If I owned _Phantom of the Opera_ and its many versions, Erik and Christine would have ended up together. So needless to say, I don't own any of them. (And if Kay's ending can be construed as Erik and Christine ending up together, I still don't own it.)

Pairings: Erik/Christine (doy)

Author's Notes: This chapter was ridiculously long (about twenty-five pages on Microsoft Word in size 9 Verdana font) on my computer, so I divided it in half. I will probably do that for the rest of the chapters to avoid driving everyone crazy reading uber-long chapters.

Also, the preliminary was mostly action, to set up the storyline; this chapter will involve more of what's going on inside Erik's and Christine's heads, rather than having them attempting to survive a mob attack, and barely having time to think.

And you know, I'm not sure that I'll even have Erik unmasked in this phic, but for the record, just because he's a Gerik with gold eyes doesn't mean he has that lame sunburn on the right side of his face. I know I said earlier that I thought Erik's death's-head was impractical, but I don't disagree with Erik's deformity covering his entire face. I just think he would have been dead before he hit his first birthday if he really were born with what was basically a skin-covered skull for a head. And then we wouldn't have had the story.

I live on reviews. Well, okay, that's a lie, but I do reeeallly like reviews, and 170 hits and only 13 reviews make me sad(ish). So come on guys, humor me and review? insert Machaela's Mellifluous Melt-Your-Heart Meow Here (Machaela is my cat.)

* * *

When the dawn came, it was near impossible for someone residing in Erik's chambers to tell that the sun had risen. That is, an ordinary person would not have detected any change. Erik was aware that the morning had broken; he had spent enough time in the caverns below the Opera House to know, in some almost preternatural way, when the weather or season or time of day changed. With the sun's arrival, the temperature in the caves would soon rise a few degrees; hopefully, Christine would be more comfortable when she awoke.

Erik had not slept since Christine's fever had appeared. He had remained awake, attempting to reverse some of the destruction done by the mob. As he worked, he had listened with an intensity and capability that would have made a hawk jealous for any signs of discomfort from Christine. She had slept soundly through the night, with the exception of one incident after he had given her the medicine. She cried out in her sleep again, this time singing: "_Twisted every way, what answer can I give? Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live? Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice? Do I become his prey? Do I have any choice? He kills without a thought; he murders all that's good! I know I can't refuse, and yet I wish I could…oh, God, if I agree, what horrors wait for me in this, the Phantom's opera?_"

_Well, at least she had _some_ qualms about setting the trap for me_, Erik had thought bitterly upon hearing this particular snippet. Sarcasm was a useful little tool; it helped Erik avoid thinking about how badly he had terrified his angel.

Now, Erik was composing.

Music had become his solution to nearly everything. Feeling too livid? Compose. Too lonely? Compose. Too betrayed? Compose.

Of course, his anger was not always released through composition. His temper, true to rumor, was often vented on worthless, contemptible worms that called themselves human. Contrary to rumor, he did not kill randomly. For instance, he had not kill females, young or old. He did not hate the rest of humankind; he simply had no mercy for those unworthy of life. Unfortunately, there were plenty of those scumbags crawling the earth; rapists, for instance. Erik's blood boiled like a witch's brew at the thought of his innocent angel Christine falling prey to one of those vermin.

Ah, Christine…the source of all his emotions these days. The source of his current confusion, a sensation that was almost completely foreign to him. Just last night, the girl had managed to send more mixed messages than most people did over the course of a lifetime. First, there was the _Don Juan_ performance; Christine's rendition of _Point of No Return_ had certainly seemed sincere. Of course, there was always the possibility that she had been under his infamous spell, and hadn't actually meant a word she sang…but still, the last thing he had expected her to do was tear off his mask. It was only then that he had noticed the policemen concealed in the shadows, their guns trained on him.

And then there was that…that mad scene in which he had bound that useless boy to the grate…he had never seen Christine look more helpless, more horrified than when she saw her lover's neck wrapped in the Punjab. Erik had been desperate then, barely clinging to sanity, nearly giving up hope of Christine ever…well…that train of thought would lead nowhere productive.

At the very least, Christine certainly knew how to get out of a sticky situation, specifically the one last night. But why did she have to raise his hopes again, only to dash them on the floor like shards of a broken mirror? Would a simple embrace and a few false words of affection not have been enough to show what she wanted? Did she know what a gesture that, to any other human, might seem almost commonplace, could do to his senses and sanity? Did she _know_ the effect a single kiss could have on him?

_Christine, why?_

How fresh and vivid the images were, each individual one clearer than the most advanced daguerreotype. Christine, standing exquisite and defenseless on the dais, her pale face streaked with tears…stepping into the waters of the lake, her sublime voice filled with pity and resolve…approaching him, her lovely sepia-colored eyes swirling with emotion only a few inches away…

It still seemed like something out of a dream, but it had happened: Christine had descended into the deceptively-still water and then kissed him—twice!—with all the tenderness and passion of a lover. During those few brief blissful minutes, Erik had clung to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, Christine was choosing _him_…

The last image of Christine during those fateful moments was by far the most sharp and intense of them all. As she leaned back, there was no disguising the look in her eyes.

Fear.

He had almost been able to hear her pleading, though she had said nothing aloud. _Please let that be enough for you, please let Raoul go…please don't make me do this…_

It was then that Erik knew Christine was not his, never had been, and never would be. She chose that foppish boy, who did seem to actually love Christine. If Christine were willing to perform such an act of sacrifice to save the Chagny boy…obviously there was no way she would even come close to living comfortably if she stayed with Erik. She wanted Raoul.

So he let her go.

So what was she doing now, scampering back to him as the mob approached? She hadn't even let her lover turn the boat around and return her to shore; she had jumped over the side and walked. Honestly, sometimes that girl just did not _think…_in any case, Erik knew that Christine was possibly the most compassionate creature on the planet; she couldn't bear to see anyone killed, even him. What had her excuse for returning been again? Oh, right: she wanted him to continue composing.

_I suppose I could take that as a left-handed compliment,_ Erik mused.

When they were hiding in the tunnels…heavens above, if there were some sort of prize for self-contradiction, she would win it, no competition. During the mob's rampage, she could only be comfortable while Erik was holding her, but then again, Erik was not bent on killing her and the mob was.

Then, once they had returned to Erik's home, once Christine had sickened, there was her turn of terrified delirium that had caused her to repeat things that she had said about being frightened of Erik. Not exactly promising. It was difficult to tell exactly what her sentiments were that time…was the fever affecting her judgment, or bringing her true feelings to the surface?

At times, it seemed that Christine could not untangle the confused convolutions of her own thoughts.

And if Christine couldn't unravel what she was thinking, how the _hell_ was Erik supposed to figure it out?

Frustrated, Erik ran a long-fingered, gloved hand through his dark hair and bent over his composition once more.

* * *

Christine stirred.

Upon feeling Christine's movement, Ayesha immediately decided that her work was done, and leapt onto the floor, where she began to preen. Providing comfort to humans was so undignified; in order to save face, she had to smooth her coat just to prove that no human (save Erik, of course) had the right to ruffle her glossy fur.

The young singer sat up halfway, rubbing the last traces of sleep from her eyes. Who was that pretty little Siamese, sitting on the floor and licking her tail? What was that translucent silver curtain doing hanging a foot or so in front of her? Where was she?

The memories of the night before returned in such a powerful rush that Christine nearly fell back upon the pillows. The trap set for the Phantom. The fear that he would whisk her away to the bowels of the opera house and chain her there like a slave. The performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. The Phantom's nightmarish, disfigured face exposed to the audience. The stomach-churning flight down to the catacombs. Raoul's valiant attempt to save her. Kissing the Phantom to save Raoul. Sailing away into the sunlight…so had Raoul taken her home? Had she awakened in the Chagny mansion?

No…there was more…she had run back to the Phantom to ensure his safety, unable to simply flee back to the daylight knowing her teacher was at the mercy of a murderous crowd. They had fled deeper into the tunnels to avoid the mob. The Phantom—no, no, his name was Erik, she remembered now—had saved her life twice, three times if one counted the tunnel collapse. She had found out so much about him last night, and yet so little…she flinched at the memory of the sickening white scars that she had seen marring Erik's back. She had agreed to stay with Erik three days (one day for each time he had saved her?) before returning to Raoul…so now she was lying in the black swan bed, no doubt.

Christine swung her legs over the side of the bed. The soft gold skirt of her Aminta dress swung past her bare feet and brushed the floor. A new thought struck her: was she going to wear this for the next three days?

Her question was quickly answered; at her feet lay two saddlebags that belonged to her. She bent to open one; it was filled with her clothes and the belongings that she had kept in her ballet dormitory and her dressing room. _Erik must have reentered the opera house and gotten these for me while I was sleeping last night…_

Last night… 

Christine's fever had left her with few memories of the night before, but the ones she had were clear as the stars on a cloudless night. She distinctly recalled believing Raoul was beside her, calling to him to allow her to not perform in _Don Juan_. She remembered Erik helping her to sit up, guiding her hands to pour a mouthful of cold, soothing, faintly bitter medicine down her throat. She recollected singing to Raoul from a dream, crying out over the hopelessness of the trap for Erik. _Oh God, Erik surely heard me singing while I was ill. He must think I loathe him! But I don't…he frightens me sometimes, but I don't loathe him…_

Christine searched her bags hastily for something into which she could change. _The way I behaved last night, especially in the tunnels…I acted like a little girl scared of the dark! Erik must think I'm weak, aside from hating him. I may only be here for three days, but still, I should make amends._ She found a dress and a chemise (she decided to forego corsetry; Erik had made it plain during her lessons that he despised corsets nearly as much as she did) and changed quickly behind the cover of the silver curtain, then rooted out a brush to tame her unruly curls. _After I look decent, I'll apologize to him…_

When Christine had deemed herself presentable, she pulled aside the translucent curtain and stepped out into Erik's home. The mess from last night might never have happened: the toppled furniture had been righted, the broken or tipped candelabra replaced and relit, the strewn artwork restored, the scattered music organized or discarded. Taking another step into the honey-lit darkness, Christine could not resist gazing around the chambers. Even during her first visit, she had never fully had time to examine her surroundings. The place was not as dark as she had expected; the scores of candles threw their flickering lights everywhere, making shadows dance like Gypsy girls upon the walls. At the far end of the cavern, lush red curtains spangled with exotic gold pattern separated the main cave from another set of rooms that Christine had never visited. To her left and across the boat's grotto, the shattered frames of the mirrors were once again draped in cloth, and beside the covered frames was Erik's crescent-shaped shrine of artwork. Several meters in front of her, the majestic organ loomed, its pipes glistening gold with candlelight; Erik sat on the bench, bent over a few sheets of paper. Like her, he had changed clothing; he was dressed similarly to the way he had been the first time Christine had seen him in person, clad entirely in black with the hem of his long elegant cloak brushing the ground. From this distance and angle, she could see only his back, and the phantasms of mist rising from the mirror-smooth surface of the lake were obscuring her vision…

Turning to her left, she gently ran her fingers over the elaborate metalwork of a candelabrum. The metal was curved into flawless loops and curls, blooming outwards like leaves of some glittering metallic flower. The white-gold curves swirled up into small cups to hold the snow-colored candles, whose arrangement formed a flame-tipped upside-down V-shape. Every detail was exquisite; she could spend an hour in this place examining the many candelabra alone. This candleholder was only the beginning; each centimeter of the place was intricately and lovingly fashioned, each statue perfect and shining, each artistic creation supernaturally flawless. As she took a step backward, the full force of the dark vista struck her like a gust of wind. This place was…

"So beautiful," she whispered in a voice so quiet she could barely hear herself.

* * *

Erik knew Christine was awake when Ayesha came to his side and leapt (of course)directly onto his stave paper. She had only stayed with Christine because Erik had wished it; now that Christine was awake, Ayesha was free to do whatever she wanted.

Erik scratched Ayesha's ears contemplatively, listening to her rumbling purr. He would wait until Christine was ready to speak to him; he would not confront her, not yet.

She emerged from her chambers not half an hour later. She had apparently found her belongings; she had combed her hair and changed clothes. Her dark mass of curls was neatly brushed and swept halfway back with a wooden comb, setting off the shape of her delicate face and making her wide, enchanting, chocolate-colored eyes seem even larger. She had dressed in a modest sage-colored gown with thin white lacy accents at the throat and waist, and long, sheer sleeves that accentuated the graceful curves of her fair arms.

It may have been her voice, innocence, and kindness that Erik had fallen in love with, but on top of that, did she have to be so bloody beautiful?

_You look exquisite, my child. _"You look as if you're feeling better," he said rather coolly.

She nodded. "I am."

Erik tore his eyes away from Christine and looked back to his composition. "Good."

"I have had fevers before, but never have I recovered that quickly, even with medicine. What was it that you gave me?" Her voice sounded a bit tremulous.

_She's likely wondering if I gave her any mind-altering drugs. _"Feverfew and cureall, among other things. It was one of my concoctions."

Christine came to his side. "Aside from music and architecture, you make herbal medicines?"

"Yes," he replied simply. _She's only being polite. She doesn't care._

"Erik, is there anything you can't do?"

_She doesn't care. She doesn't care about you, let alone your fields of expertise. _"Certain things." Erik suddenly appeared very interested in the amount of ink on the tip of his quill.

Christine paused. "Thank you. For curing me."

"You were quite sick, ange…Christine. I could not simply allow you to suffer."

She perched on the bench beside him. "I…I'd like to apologize."

He glanced up at her, his golden eyes swimming with surprise. "For what, pray tell, would you have to apologize?"

"My behavior last night, especially while you were hiding me from the mob. I was…I was frightened, and immature. I'm sorry."

"You had every reason to be frightened. Most people tend to be a little unsettled when there is a crowd of furious people who are trying to kill you only a few meters away." While listening to her master's words, Ayesha eyed Christine suspiciously, as if to say, _You aren't trying to warm up to him, are you? Are you planning to take him from me, human?_

Christine insisted, "I didn't have to act like a cringing puppy."

Erik suppressed a sigh. "I still think you have no need to apologize, but if you insist in doing so, I accept your apology."

"I'm also sorry for what I…what happened while I was feverish." The words came out in a rush, as if she found them difficult to pronounce.

"Now you are being ridiculous," he said critically, inscribing an accidental B natural onto the page. "One has little control—if any—over what they say while they are delirious."

"So you heard me crying out." Christine bit her lower lip. Why couldn't she have simply babbled nonsense like most delirious people?

"Yes." _What _is _she driving at? She has no reason to apologize, let alone explain her behavior._

Christine reached to place a hand on his shoulder. But would he accept her comfort? He must be so unused to physical contact…

"Let…let me explain," she tried.

He responded coldly, "There is nothing to explain." _Damn her for being so sensitive…_ The Siamese agreeably nuzzled Erik's arm, and she cut her slitted eyes at Christine.

Christine's throat suddenly felt dry. "But after what I said, or sang, you must think I am terrified of you."

"My darling Christine, no doubt exists." Erik stroked Ayesha's head nonchalantly.

"But…Erik…" Christine trailed off, looking down at her small hands. "I suppose I should ask what exactly you heard." _Please, don't be angry, I didn't mean…_even in her head, Christine could not complete the sentence.

Erik did not even lay down his quill as he spoke. "Very well. I heard you sing to the Chagny boy. You repeated what you had sang before you and he performed that lovely duet of devotion that night on the roof of the opera house. Then you spoke to him again…it sounded as if you were pleading not to sing in _Don Juan_. Then you sang the same wishes. I must say, my dear, it was rather well-done little song for being sung completely out of fear, and on the spot. What was that line that I was particularly fond of…? Oh, yes: 'if I agree, what horrors wait for me in this, the Phantom's opera?'"

Christine felt a leaden presence swell in the pit of her stomach. "I was afraid that you would take me here and keep me forever, against my will," the young singer whispered. "And you nearly did…but then you released me. I know now that you wouldn't force me to stay for the rest of my life. I didn't know that before."

"You thought me a monster. You were right." _Now stop being _nice_ before you wear me down_. Erik's tone was still uncaring. It made Christine flinch, but she sat up straight beside him and continued.

"No. I was wrong. When I was frightened, that night when…the night of the _Il Muto_ performance, I ran from you far too quickly. I knew so little…but now I know more." _I've seen how much you care for me, Erik, where before I thought the only feelings you had for me were those of some frightful obsession._

"You know that I was the most popular attraction in a gypsy freak show. You know that I have worked for the shah of Persia. You know that I have talents other than music. You do not, however, know any more of me than you did the night you pledged yourself to the Vicomte."

"That isn't true!" Christine protested, reaching out to grasp his left hand, which was still scrawling notes onto the page.

"Well, then, what have you learned?" His tone was almost amused, as if he were wondering what absurd notion Christine might be referring to.

"Right now, you act so…so…_indifferent_. But last night, you couldn't have cared less what happened to you when the mob approached, and you rescued me twice without a second thought when you found out I was in danger."

_Where is she headed with this?_ "Is there a point here, Christine?" Erik set down his quill and whirled to face her. She nearly flinched; his eyes could have been made of gold-painted steel.

She forced her tongue to form the words. "You're hiding your feelings from me now. But, Erik, you've even admitted it…"

"Admitted _what_, precisely?" His voice cut through her sentence like a knife.

"You…you're in love with me." The feather-light whisper fell from her lips and dropped with the heaviness of a two-tonne weight.

The corners of Erik's mouth twitched again, similar to the way they had the previous night when Christine had been inquiring about his original intentions toward her. "Not _in_ love, my dear, that phrase implies reciprocity." Erik's uncannily quick riposte was half-infuriating, half-heartbreaking.

"Regardless!" Christine cried, making helpless gestures with her thin, expressive hands. "Erik, why are you pretending such coldness?"

He returned to his composition and did not reply. _Don't you dare admit this to her…_

"Erik?" Christine's brow furrowed with something like worry, or concern. _I know he loves me. Why is he doing this? Is he trying to protect himself from my rejection?_" Is it because you're afraid of how I'll act if you show your true feelings?" Christine pressed. The air between her and Erik was as taut as an archer's bow, with a poisoned arrow poised and ready to fly. She swallowed hard, knowing she was treading on unsteady ground.

Again, no answer but the sound of the quill skittering over the page.

"Erik?"

"I don't fear your reaction." His voice was now icier than the lake's water. Christine could swear that she felt the heat drain from her body, and gooseflesh ravaged her arms.

"It's a bit…disquieting," she murmured.

"Disquieting?" Erik repeated slowly, analyzing her word choice. "How so?" _I would think any sign of affection would trouble her more than indifference._

"You frighten me when you're like this. It's as if I'm no longer…no longer human in your mind." Christine's concealed subconscious had taken hold of her mouth. Her conscious mind barely knew what words her lips were forming.

"I am merely trying to make you more _comfortable_, ang…Christine."

"That is what I mean! It sounds like you're about to call me 'angel,' but you cut yourself off and simply call me by my name." She wrung her hands, praying that this conversation would break through Erik's newfound iciness. However he had behaved near her before, whether he was serenading her passionately, half-dragging her down from the opera stage, or protecting her from a murderous crowd, he had never simply been _cold_ for so long and for no appreciable reason. Why now, during the last three days of his life that he would ever see her, was he shutting her out? His aloofness was almost more disturbing than the moments of insanity that Christine had witnessed…

The tip of Erik's quill caught on a rough bit of a parchment. The ink spattered and the quill's end bent. With a sharp sigh, Erik stood in one swift, fluid movement, his black cape whirling out behind him like a demon's shadow. He towered over her, his full height even more imposing compared to Christine's sitting position. His eyes glistened, but not threateningly.

Christine tried to speak, but her mouth had gone dry, and there was no sound when her lips moved. She cleared her throat slowly, like a nervous schoolgirl about to give a speech to her class. "I don't mind if you call me that." Her voice still rasped, and she swallowed. "Really, I don't mind."

"I presumed the use of any terms of affection would distress you," he replied firmly. _You don't want to be my angel, Christine. I wouldn't wish that on anyone; certainly not you._

Christine cringed, shivering against what seemed to be a block of ice pressing against her heart. "Don't…talk that way," she hissed softly, fighting the all-too-familiar sensation of unshed tears burning the backs of her eyes. _I won't cry_, she fiercely ordered herself, _I'm not an immature, whimpering little girl anymore. There's no reason to cry, we're just having a conversation. I won't cry!_

"Which way?" Startled into concern, Erik briefly forgot to sound standoffish.

Christine rose to her feet, locking eyes with him. She was, of course, still much shorter than he was, but she felt stronger standing up. The brief urge to cry had partly subsided. "As if there's no feeling at all in what you're saying. I'd prefer it if you were angry with me! Erik, I don't want to talk to an emotionless mask!"

Erik watched her with growing pride. _My little angel is growing up…I've never seen her act so assertive._ "Then what is it you want?" There was more warmth in his voice this time.

Christine inhaled and exhaled deeply. "You said last night that you wanted me to stay here for three days so you could imagine what it was like to have my company forever. If I were going to stay here for the rest of my life, you wouldn't be so indifferent."

Erik smiled grimly. "If I were to act as if you were going to stay here for the rest of your life, then I would have to act as if I loved you. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

Christine lowered her head and closed her eyes. In his own infuriatingly calm way, Erik could be so _difficult_! The angry heat was building behind her eyes again. _No! I can't cry over a simple exchange of words. I'm twenty years old, not twelve!_

Despite Christine's valiant efforts, Erik could easily sense that she was about to cry; he had to admire her determination to remain calm. _Poor child, I'm making her cry again. Am I truly so horrible that I can inadvertently reduce her to tears with a few words? If only I could comfort her…but no, I shouldn't touch her, I never should have._

Erik unclasped his cloak, sliding it from his back and moving to wrap the black cloth around Christine's body. He did not fasten it around her neck; he held the material taut over her slender form, embracing her with the cloak instead of his arms. She took the fabric in her hands, smiling tremulously up at him.

"I am sorry." Erik lowered his voice gently. "I meant no offense, Christine, and I certainly did not mean to hurt your feelings."

"It's all right," Christine sighed, bringing the sleek cloth of Erik's cloak up to her chin. "I'm being too sensitive."

"And I too _in_sensitive." Erik was standing a scant few inches away from her. It would be so easy to reach out and brush her cheek with his fingertips…

Christine laughed softly. "Thank you."

"You are welcome."

Silence fell like a curtain between them; neither knew what to say next.

Christine's stomach ended up shattering the quiet with an unlovely rumbling sound. Christine blushed violently. "Please excuse me," she mumbled, embarrassed. Raoul had taught her to be scandalized at such appalling bodily eruptions, though secretly she wondered why she should be so ashamed of her stomach announcing her hunger.

"Come. I'll get you something to eat," said Erik smoothly, extending one hand to her. Christine nearly reached out and took it, but Erik stepped away from her, gently curling his preternaturally long fingers inward, beckoning. Christine followed, nearly entranced, her eyes fixed on the graceful hand that might have been leading her over a cliff and she would have been none the wiser.

Of course, he was only leading her to the kitchen.

After Christine had sat down at the table, Erik curled his hand into a fist, and the marionette string that had held Christine was snapped.

She blinked twice, as if to clear her vision. "How do you do that?" she blurted out.

Erik turned to face her; he had been searching the kitchen's cabinets. "I beg your pardon?"

"How do you extend your hand and make me follow you?" _It's a little bit frightening,_ she added silently.

"A magician never reveals his secrets, Christine." An enigmatic, almost teasing smile accompanied this statement. "But rest assured, Christine, I will never lead you anywhere you don't wish to go." Any levity in his tone had abruptly vanished.

Christine nodded. "I believe you," she replied demurely.

Erik turned back to the cabinets. "Now, for your breakfast…would you like cinnamon porridge, Christine?"

Her head snapped up, thick curls bouncing. "How…how did you know that was my favorite thing to eat for breakfast?"

"You mentioned it to little Giry once…you two were complaining about the ballet dormitory's culinary excellence, or lack thereof."

"I don't recall saying that recently," Christine remarked.

"It wasn't recently. I believe you and Marguerite had that conversation very soon after you two became such fast friends."

"But…but that would have been about twelve years ago!" she cried. _Does he remember everything that has ever happened to me?_

"Yes, it was quite a while ago." The comment sounded amused, reflecting on a fond memory.

"How did you remember that?" she queried softly.

"Do we not want to know everything about those we love, Christine?" Erik set a small iron pot of water to boil for Christine's porridge.

"Yes…I suppose," the young woman replied slowly. The corners of her lips curled upward and she giggled softly. "I doubt Raoul knows my favorite color!" The instant the sentence left her mouth, she bit her lips against the impulsive statement. Would Erik be angered at mention of Raoul?

Resentment flitted briefly across Erik's features, but his back was to Christine and she could not see. Erik leveled his voice and said simply, "That was one opinion that often changed…it's lilac as of late, is it not?"

"Yes." A grin crossed Christine's light-skinned face for the first time in weeks. "Do you remember what it was when I first came to live here?" she teased.

Erik nearly smiled. "Blue, like the ocean. Little Giry could not understand why you didn't adore pink as she did."

Christine sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Doubtless you know how much I love the ocean."

"It reminds you of your childhood." Erik conceded.

"And my father." The phrase emerged from her lips as barely more than a whisper.

_Thirteen years later and there is still a hole in her heart where her father once was._ "You still miss him." Erik's voice was nearly as quiet as Christine's had been.

"It's so childish, I know." Christine bowed her head to hide the growing redness surrounding her eyes.

"Childish?" Erik repeated. "I fail to see how it is childish to miss someone who was the center of your life."

Christine inhaled deeply, suppressing the tears that she could feel building. She had learned well how to fight back cries when she thought of her father; it was something she had done almost daily for at least a year after her Papa had died. "It has been thirteen years, Erik. I should at least be able to think of him without nearly crying!"

"You are going through an extremely trying time right now. Old wounds can be easily reopened at times like this," Erik consoled her, mixing oats and cinnamon into the now-boiling water. _It really is quite irritating that her breakfast will burn if I turn away to comfort her…_

The singer sniffled. "At least I don't cry every night…I did that at first…I always felt so lonely, me lying awake while all the other ballet dancers were sleeping…"

"You _sounded_ lonely. I never could bear the sound of you crying. So I would come and…"

"Then you would come and sing me to sleep." Christine smiled. "My Angel of Music."

"Magnificent angel I turned out to be." Erik's smile tightened into a bitter curve.

"How did you manage to sing to me without waking the other girls?" Christine leaned her elbows onto the table and cupped her face in her hands, something Raoul told her was absolutely scandalous—that is, placing her elbows on the table.

"I have some experience in ventriloquism—incidentally, I learned from a book I was given by my mother's maid. I learned to speak without moving my lips…and to throw my voice. I threw the sound of the lullabies I sang you to your ears and no one else's."

"I suppose I…I should thank you. For comforting me when I was young." _And I suppose I should ask why you chose to comfort me._

"No thanks necessary, Christine. I should have never contacted you." Erik turned and placed Christine's bowl of porridge in front of her, along with a spoon. "Here. And yes, I remembered that you aren't fond of raisins."

"Erik!" Christine cried as he swept past her and made for the doorway. "Why?"

He halted and placed one hand on the doorjamb. "Why _what_, Christine?"

Christine drew the folds of Erik's cloak tighter around her petite body. "Why did you sing me to sleep? Why did you become my Angel of Music? Why did you…comfort me when I was crying?"

When he faced her, Christine nearly flinched. His golden irises shone with the same indescribably deep sorrow that she had seen only once before, that same eternal grief that had made her heart jerk when she had first removed his mask. _In his eyes, all the sadness of the world…_

"I don't believe this is an opportune time to tell you that, angel."

He turned and left. Christine remained sitting alone in the kitchen, with her porridge growing cold in front of her. Swallowing hard, she bent over it, taking the spoon and lifting a single bite to her mouth. In spite of Erik's sudden and unexpected rejection (of sorts), she couldn't help but smile at the sweet warmth spreading through her mouth. The ballet dormitory had rarely served porridge, and when they did, it was cold and bland.

She had never been inside Erik's kitchen before. He had somehow managed to accrue the most unusual kitchen Christine had ever seen, but how was that a surprise?

The walls and floor were simply the bare brown sides of a cave, but they looked oddly polished, unlike the rest of Erik's home. The ceiling was low, but stretched for at least twenty meters in front of her. Somehow Erik had managed to smooth the roughness of the stone. _Well, he is so tall, I imagine that's why he wanted to smooth the ceiling…but that doesn't explain how_. Stacked in the back of the room, there were cartons upon cartons of bizarre glass containers and bottles of leaves and dried barriers and the like, some of which would have looked more at home in a laboratory than a kitchen. At the opposite end of the space, an imposing metal door was wedged precisely into the rock, half-concealed by the stacks of boxes, and Christine would not have been at all surprised if there were indeed a laboratory behind it.

Nearer to her and fixed to the wall were a series of cabinets. All were made of the same type of dark, near-grainless wood, but each was a different shape from the next, a few unlike any she had ever seen before. She supposed Erik might have thought uniform cabinets were boring; some of the shapes were certainly interesting enough, with pentagons or hexagons for front faces, and some even more irregular. _I wonder how he effectively stores things in there…well, knowing him, I'm sure he found a way…_

Above Christine's head hung long strings and clumps of withered herbs and flowers in once-lavish colors that were now dark and shrunken. She tipped her head back to admire them fully. Scores of twisted and dried vegetables and plants were suspended in the air, dangling from minute dull copper hooks embedded in the ceiling. _Surely there must be enough herbs here to make a full witch's brew!_ Still gaping wonderingly at her surroundings, Christine mindlessly spooned another mouthful of porridge into her mouth.

As the cinnamon spread slowly across her tongue, a new thought abruptly struck her: why wasn't Erik eating as well? Surely he would have ordinarily taken advantage of such a perfect excuse to be around her…

Come to think of it, when was the last time he had eaten at all? An image crossed her mind, one of Erik unclasping his cloak to drape it around her body; and as he pulled the cloth from his own back, Christine could see the way his black shirt hung loosely and emptily around a painfully thin torso. _I don't remember him being so…so emaciated when I first came here…has he been neglecting food lately?_

Christine abandoned her porridge and slipped through the doorway. She found Erik at his organ, composing again.

He heard her approaching footsteps and addressed her without turning around. "Done so soon, Christine? Was your breakfast not to your liking?"

She hastened to his side, nearly tripping in her white cloth slippers. She gripped his shoulder tightly, her fingers wrapping around a frighteningly sharp ridge of bone, and her stomach cringed in worry. The material of Erik's jacket was approximately the same thickness as the tissue covering his distinctly pronounced shoulder. He glanced up at her, startled at the sudden contact.

"Erik, when was the last time you ate something?" she demanded.

He moved away from the concerned clench of her hand. "It's really not necessary to eat more than once a day, you know…"

"Erik, you're being evasive!" Christine insisted. Ordinarily, she would have been afraid of his reaction to such boldness on her part, but his dangerous thinness gave her incentive. He was scarcely more than a skeleton! "You look as if you haven't eaten in weeks!"

"That is patently untrue, Christine," Erik countered a little too swiftly. _Oh, _damn_ her concern! Why should she care if I wither away from starvation? It would mean the end of many of her problems…_

"When was the last time you ate?" Christine whispered. Her dark curls shivered around her troubled features.

Erik hesitated. Lies had always come easily to his tongue, often much more easily than the truth. He occasionally thought of lying as a second language. So why could he not bring himself to lie to Christine? "Perhaps last week, or the week before…I do not keep track."

"Last _week_?" Christine cried. "Why do you neglect food? You're wasting away!"

"You forget your place, Christine!" Erik stood in one quick, sinuous motion, nearly knocking Christine off her feet. "It isn't your job to monitor my health!"

She stared up at him tremulously. His eyes blazed behind the cold whiteness of his mask, but Christine was not interested in that. The things that concerned her were the deep line of fatigue that underscored Erik's visible eye, and the pallid skin stretched thinly over the razor-sharp line of his jaw. "Then…then who else will?"

"No one ever _has_ cared about my health, Christine. I see no reason for you—or anyone—to be concerned now." Erik paused, his chest heaving slightly with the effort to remain calm.

"I still don't understand why you neglect food," Christine pressed quietly.

"God in heaven, you are a stubborn little wench!" Erik smiled grimly. "I must have rubbed off on you…" he sighed. "I rarely feel incentive to eat. It never crosses my mind."

"Don't you get hungry?" Erik wished she would stop being so bloody caring. It would be so much easier to ignore his feelings for her if she didn't feel sorry for him. _I don't want your pity or your fear, Christine, I want you to feel that infamous emotion of which I will _never_ be the recipient…so don't waste your kindness, angel, not on me._

"Hunger makes a much kinder traveling companion than heartsickness, I'm afraid," he replied heavily, sitting down and returning to his composition. "Go back to the kitchen, Christine. Your porridge is likely getting cold."

Christine's demure voice came from behind him. "If you won't eat, will you at least sit with me?" She watched his shoulders slacken.

"Why do you ask?" His voice was barely audible.

"I…I just…" Suddenly Christine felt incredibly frustrated by her newfound stutter that seemed to appear when Erik asked her difficult questions. "I would just like to have you nearby."

"As you wish," he responded gravely. As he stood, he moved as if he had no feet; he simply hovered to a standing position.

Christine turned and paced slowly back to the kitchen, Erik following silently behind her. She slipped back into her seat and took a small bite of her porridge.

"Is it cold now? Shall I make you some more?" Erik's voice, devoid of inflection, sounded lowly from behind her.

"Even if it were cold, you wouldn't have to make me any more," Christine protested. "It isn't as if I'm royalty and need my porridge at the perfect temperature!" _Heavens above, if I said I wanted a blade of grass from India, he would likely walk there to get it for me._

"I'm afraid you will have to acquiesce to being pampered, Christine. You are to be the wife of a nobleman, after all."

Christine swallowed. "I…I suppose you're right." She spooned another lump of porridge into her mouth. "I must say, Erik, you have the most intriguing kitchen I've even laid eyes on."

"Does that honestly surprise you?" Erik took a seat across from her—there were only two chairs.

"No." She giggled lightly. "So you made all of these cabinets?"

"Who else would build a cabinet with an eight-sided door?" Erik replied, and Christine could have sworn he smiled briefly.

"No one but you," she admitted. "But why?"

"Why be ordinary?" Erik countered. "As long as I build them correctly, they are just as useful as regular cabinets."

"What do you keep in all of these?"

"Mostly not food, as you likely gathered. In some of them I keep the ingredients for some of my herbal medicines. In the one with the triangular door I keep all my finished mixtures, such as the one I used to cure you last night."

_I wouldn't be at all surprised if he next claimed that he'd discovered the Elixir of Youth—and I wouldn't be at all surprised if it were true._ "Is that what all of these dried plants are for?" Christine gestured at the ceiling. "Your concoctions?"

"Yes." Erik raised his eyebrows slightly. "I see you were hungry."

Christine glanced down at her bowl. To her surprise, she had devoured at least three-quarters of her breakfast over the course of their short conversation.

Erik rose. "You must be thirsty. I will get you some water." He selected a glass from the sole rectangular cabinet and filled it from a white porcelain spigot in the wall. He placed it on the tabletop before Christine. "Here you are. Don't worry, it's purified."

"Thank you." Christine took small swallow. The water was so cold it made her gums ache a little, but was oddly refreshing.

Erik watched her drink with small, ladylike sips; no doubt that was something the foppish boy had taught her to do. When she was younger, she had never been a ravenous eater by any stretch, but she had at least acted as if she was capable of hunger. Doubtless she was ashamed of the way she had consumed her porridge. Maybe he could cheer her up a bit. "Christine, have you ever eaten a banana, by any chance?"

She glanced up, her eyes widened with awe. "No, I haven't…I heard they only grow in the tropics."

"Yes, they do. Would you like to try one?"

"You have some? How?"

"I have my ways," Erik replied with a rather secretive smile. He glided back to the wall of cabinets and opened the heptagonal door of one cabinet (Christine took mental notes: triangular, finished concoctions; rectangular, drinking glasses and probably utensils; heptagonal, food) and withdrew a small wicker basket. Inside the basket lay the strangest-looking fruits to ever come before Christine's eyes. Each banana was longer than the span of her hand from thumbnail to littlest fingertip, and they seemed to be covered in a thick, fibrous yellow skin. They were shaped slightly like large hooked index fingers, and the four fruits were conjoined at their tips, forming an odd-looking bunch. Erik snapped one of the bananas off of the clump and replaced the basket. When he moved back toward Christine, she held her hand out and Erik placed the banana into her outstretched fingers. "You don't eat the skin. You peel it like this…" Erik split the top of the banana's peel open and pulled down one strip of the yellow skin, exposing the pale fruit beneath. Almost cautiously, Christine repeated the motion until the top four inches of the banana were completely exposed. "Go on. Try it."

With just a slight hesitation, Christine sank her teeth into the soft fruit and took a bite, and a mild, sweet flavor filled her mouth. "Mm!" she cried out in pleasant surprise, as she had expected a rather bizarre taste from a fruit that came from places like Australia. She chewed and swallowed. "Thank you," she said quietly, glancing up at Erik.

"You are welcome." Erik took his seat once again. Christine looked down at her bowl and was struck by an abrupt surge of guilt; Erik was not eating anything, and here she was dining on tropical fruit and her favorite breakfast food.

"Erik, are you sure you aren't going to eat anything?"

"Yes, I am sure." His voice was cool, his expression revealing nothing.

Christine ate slowly for the rest of the meal. Erik watched her silently.

"Christine?" He addressed her suddenly.

"Yes?" She raised her eyes to look at him, a little startled.

"Would you like to resume your voice lessons after you're finished?"

Christine hastily swallowed her bite of porridge. "Yes, yes I would!"

Taken slightly aback by her emphatic answer, Erik replied, "Very well. I'll see to it that we begin shortly." _That was a bit of a shot in the dark…I had no idea she would even consent to another lesson with myself as her teacher._

Was it Erik's imagination, or did Christine eat more rapidly after that question?

After she was finished, Erik disposed of the banana peel, and washed and replaced her bowl and water glass. She protested.

"Erik, I can do it myself, really."

"I know you can, Christine, but you are a guest here. I believe I also mentioned that you will have to become acclimated to not doing any work for yourself."

_The infamous Phantom of the Opera is throwing away the peel of my banana_, Christine thought glumly. "May we begin my lesson now?"

"Angel, you know perfectly well your voice will not be at its best straight after eating."

A small grin played at the corners of Christine's mouth. _He called me "angel" again._ _Is that a good sign? Yes, I think it is._

* * *

A/N: Huh…you know, I think my Erik is turning out to be an extremely Kay-ified Gerik. That's always so odd when characters change on you, but kind of fun at the same time. But, well, I tried to be more realistic. For instance, Gerik has slightly darker skin than ALW-Christine, but come on…Erik lives underground. If you don't get sun, you're pale. Also, the man doesn't like food; he's going to be thinner than is healthy.

I know I had too much fun describing Erik's home, especially the kitchen. But hey, what's the point of writing if it isn't fun?

Just for clarification, despite the Kay influence of Erik's background, this story still takes place right after the end of the ALW movie. Ergo Christine was only with Erik one night rather than a week, there have been no dead spiders, Christine did not meet Ayesha, etc. etc.

The next half of this day is in the next chapter.


	3. Day One Part Two

Three Days

Day One: Ambiguity  
Part Two

Summary: AU; what if Christine ran back to Erik as the mob approached, just to make sure he survived? And what if she stayed in Erik's kingdom of darkness for three days before returning to Raoul? ALW-based, with Kay influence because I FINALLY READ _PHANTOM_! w00t!

Disclaimer: If I owned _Phantom of the Opera_ and its many versions, Erik and Christine would have ended up together. So needless to say, I don't own any of them. (And if Kay's ending can be construed as Erik and Christine ending up together, I still don't own it.)

Pairings: Erik/Christine (doy)

Author's Notes: So, here's Part Two of Day One. Okay…just to warn you guys, Christine nearly does something incredibly stupid in this chapter. Luckily she realizes she is making a tremendous mistake, because I believe that Christine DOES have a brain inside that pretty head of hers…well, maybe. She has a spine too…well, the potential to grow one anyway. But her illness in the previous chapter kind of gave her an excuse to be unsteady; heck, I was the first black belt at my Tae Kwon Do school, but if I'm really (as in sick as Christine was in the preliminary) sick, I become a simpering little wimp.

* * *

Approximately half an hour later, Erik sat before his organ, with Christine poised in singer's stance beside him. 

"We'll begin with the usual warm-ups. Start with the triads, going up. Tall 'ah' sound. Begin!" Erik struck a chord on the organ.

Christine launched into the familiar warm-up, lifting her eyebrows as her voice struck the highest note and using her diaphragm to give a firm bounce to each syllable.

"Good. Now the 'ee' sound."

Christine obeyed, taking care that her vowel sound stayed "vertical."

Erik's clipped, commanding voice came again. "Two more, on the 'oh' sound."

This was new; usually Erik allowed her to finish the high section of this warm-up on the 'ee' sound, which was easier. Focusing on creating the critical space in the back of her throat, and placing two fingers behind her jaw to confirm its presence, she confidently projected her voice from her lungs and out her mouth, a satisfyingly high, sweet tone resulting.

"Well done, Christine."

She felt her cheeks warm at the comment; Erik rarely complimented her during lessons, and even more infrequently during warm-ups.

"Which note was that?" she queried.

"D. Excellent."

"Thank you."

"Now, try a siren; start at the highest pitch your voice can reach and go down."

When Christine was done with her warm-up exercises, Erik handed her the top sheet of what appeared to be a rather long finished piece. Glancing at the heading, she could see that it was a requiem written for a four-part choir. The composer's name was listed simply as "Erik."

"You wrote this?" Christine cried. She had no doubt that Erik could write choir pieces as well as operas, but a Latin Catholic mass? Erik's religious convictions had never really crossed her mind…

"I did." Erik wasted no time being proud of this; he simply continued with the lesson. "Begin with the soprano solo at the beginning of the introit. It's relatively easy to sight-read, and I have complete faith in your abilities." He paused a minute to allow Christine to briefly scan the line which she was to sing. "Here's your starting chord…" He rolled off the notes one by one. "And one, two, three, four, one, two, three…"

"_Requiem aeternam…requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine…_"

"Stop." Erik cut her off. "You know well how to sight-read, and you are hitting the notes perfectly. Now don't be afraid of them." He struck the starting chord once more. "Again."

Christine's voice rang out again, this time clearer and with more conviction. "_Requiem aeternam…requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine…requiem aeternam, aeternam…dona eis, dona eis Domine…_"

"Much better. Continue."

"_Et lux, et lux perpetua…et lux perpetua luceat eis…luceat eis…_"

At that point, an alto singer was to take over the solo. "Skip the alto part here, Christine…go to measure twenty-six, where the alto and soprano sing in harmony." Christine made a quick affirmative gesture and began while Erik sang the alto line one octave lower. "_Exaudi, exaudi orationem…orationem meam…ad te omnis, ad te omnis caro veniet…omnis caro veniet._"

"Excellent job, Christine." Erik dipped her a quick nod.

"It's a beautiful piece," Christine conceded.

"You've only heard the first bit of the introit," Erik countered, but Christine could still make out the faint swell of pride in his voice. She wasn't surprised; his life was so isolated, it was likely that he never received any sort of compliment…or even any sort of conversation, aside from Christine's lessons.

After she had mastered the introit, Erik had Christine skip to the Pie Jesu section, which was led by a melodic soprano line backed by the rest of the choir, and then the Kyrie, which included a coloratura descant. The soprano solo lines fit Christine's register and tone color perfectly, as if Erik had written them specifically for her voice.

"Well done, Christine. I think that will be all for now," said Erik after Christine had perfected a particularly difficult phrase.

"Thank you," Christine smiled. "It's a lovely requiem, Erik…would you mind playing the rest for me?"

"Not at all. If you would like to sit, I could fetch a chair for you."

"Can't I sit on the bench with you?" Christine queried, surprised.

Erik replied quietly, "As you wish."

Christine took a seat beside him as his adept musician's hands moved over the keyboards. Instead of performing the organ's accompaniment, he played all four of the vocal parts. He began with Christine's solo at the introit, easily imitating the high flawless tone of the voice that had sang it. Christine had to hold back a gasp of wonder when he reached the entrance of the full choir; the melodies and harmonies swirled with slow, gentle grace around each other like the scarves of dancers. She let her eyes slide shut as the smooth, flowing phrases floated through the air, filling her mind with nothing but the pure aching sweetness of music.

Erik's requiem continued. She could tell when one movement was over and another began, but the transitions were so fluent and sinuous that she did not have time to register any sort of stopping point. She was simply listening to a song so exquisite that it seemed to physically caress and gentle her body, seeping into her thoughts to fill her entire consciousness with sound.

When the final chord sounded, Christine clung desperately to every note, nearly weeping from the knowledge that the divine sound was about to cease. How could anything so sublime come to an end?

"Christine? Angel?" Erik's voice came from beside her. Was it truly the voice of a mere man? Its timbre matched that of the music…bewitching…angelic…

"Christine?" She crashed back to reality with a jolt.

"Wha—yes?"

"Are you all right? You seem…distracted."

"I'm sorry." Christine struggled to regain her hold on reality after having her soul spirited away by the music. "It…it was just so…so…" _Oh, why can't language be more expressive? How can a commonplace word like "beautiful" be used for something so extraordinary?_ "I loved it," she substituted.

"I'm glad you did. An artist always enjoys having his or her work appreciated." Erik glanced at her with just the barest hint of a smile.

"How do you play it so that I become…entranced?" The sentence fell from her lips before she knew what she was saying.

"Entranced?" Erik repeated. "Angel, have I taught you nothing these many years I have been your tutor? You have only to perform with all your heart and soul to capture the mind of your audience."

"You can 'capture my mind' in a way unlike I've ever seen before," Christine pointed out.

Erik sighed. "I apologize…I did not mean to 'entrance' you. Why do you ask? Does it frighten you?"

"No…I suppose not." Christine twisted her hands in her lap.

"Hold out your hand." The command was sharp and unexpected.

"What?" She cut her eyes at her teacher.

"Extend your hand," Erik repeated, with more gentleness this time.

Mystified, Christine obeyed; she held her left hand out to him, palm down. Erik cupped his fingers beneath hers, keeping his gloved right hand a few centimeters below her uncovered one.

"You're biting your fingernails again." His voice was low and surprisingly tender.

"Yes…yes, I know it's a horrid habit," Christine muttered, ashamed.

"It isn't that. The last time you bit your nails, you were eight years old. Before I first came to you. And now, just shy of your twenty-first birthday, you start again?"

Christine swallowed, not knowing what to say.

"Do you know why, Christine?"

"Why I bite my nails?"

"Yes."

"I think…perhaps I do it when I feel nervous, or…"

"Frightened?" The single, lightly spoken word silenced the young singer.

"…yes."

Erik scrutinized Christine's hand carefully. It was small and fine-boned, wrapped in pale, silky skin. Her slender, splayed fingers were slightly tapered and clear of any blemishes, but their perfection ended at the tips; her nails were ragged and torn, bitten to the quick, a few of them marked with crusted blood. _So, here it is. She bites her nails when she's frightened—physical proof of how badly you terrified her. You've heard her crying, you've seen her cling to that boy like a lifeline, and you've watched her pledge herself to him…yet you still idolized her, followed her, depicted her constantly in all of your art and music…but there it is, your proof that all hope is lost. You actually believed that an angel could smile upon a creature like you, Erik? Never!_

Christine was bewildered. Why was he simply studying her hand, as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever laid eyes on? Her hands were actually quite unattractive with her gnawed nails…Raoul used to kiss her hands often, especially when he thought she needed comforting, but he had stopped since she began biting her fingernails.

"I know, they're hideous," said Christine humbly.

"Not hideous, Christine. You could never be hideous."

"Then why are you…?" She trailed off, watching him pass his left hand through the air a few millimeters above her outstretched fingers, as if longing to caress her hand but not daring.

"Erik?"

He retreated suddenly. "Come, I have something for you."

"What…?"

"Something I retrieved from your apartments in the opera house." Erik led her to a wall of crimson curtains. "Wait here."

Christine obeyed while Erik slipped into the concealed chamber and returned a few seconds later with something tucked under his arm. Christine saw the familiar well-worn black shape of an instrument case and gasped with recognition as Erik held it out to her.

"Papa's violin!" She clutched it to her chest, running her fingertips over the familiar contours of the violin case.

"I thought you might be pleased."

"I was so frightened it had been destroyed in the fire!" Almost reverently, Christine pried open the case to peer at the violin inside. It was completely undamaged. She resealed the case. "Thank you." As she clasped the precious instrument to her heart again, Erik's cloak slipped from her shoulders, and she abruptly realized that she had kept it wrapped around her in a mock-embrace, even during her lesson. She felt oddly cold without it.

"Oh, I'm sorry…did…did you want this back?" Still holding tightly to her father's violin with one hand, she proffered his cloak. She was not tall enough to hold it so the hem didn't brush the ground.

"If you no longer wish to hold it, yes." Erik took his cloak back and fastened it around his neck once more.

_How is it that he appears to do everything with a single motion?_

"I wish to return to my composition now. You may explore, but do not pass through these curtains." Erik gestured at the drapes through which he had just walked. Christine nodded.

After Erik went back to composing (Christine wondered what piece he was working on that was so all-consuming), Christine quickly discovered Erik's small library. The curtains leading to the library were completely gold rather than scarlet—a testament to Erik's appreciation for knowledge?

The room was rather small, but that impression might have been the result of the fact that every wall was completely concealed by bookshelves. There was an extremely large, well-cushioned, dark maroon armchair in one corner, but otherwise the entire room was devoted to books.

Christine had never been inside a proper library. Though small, Erik's room held more books than she had ever seen at one time. She walked slowly past the closest bookshelf, trailing her fingertips over the thick, worn spine of a leather-bound, navy-colored novel. The shelves seemed to be organized by language; the book that she currently examined seemed to be written in one of the Asiatic tongues, along with the rest of the surrounding tomes. She wandered around the space, carefully examining the different shelves. She had trouble distinguishing one Asian dialect from another, but the tongues she identified included German, French, Arabic, English, Italian, and even her native Swedish. She ran her thumb over the spine of a collection of Nordic folktales, and then pulled it away from the shelf. She opened the cover and glanced over the table of contents. So many of the stories were painfully familiar, the "dark stories of the North" that her father had read to her when she was young.

"Papa…" her voice trailed into nothingness. She still tightly held the neck her father's violin case in one hand, and now she clutched both it and the storybook tightly to her breast. In the back of her mind, images of her childhood danced innocently: her father emphatically reading the story of _Pier and the Dala Horse_, the familiar sweet, bouncing violin strains of _A Girl Merrily was Dancing_ or _Svardsjopolska_…falling asleep after hearing, yet again, the promise of the Angel of Music…

Christine felt the backs of her eyes prickling hotly, and her stomach lurched. Almost angrily, she wiped at her eyes with one hand. _Erik told me that "old wounds" are easily opened at times like this. But why is my father's memory still a wound? Why has it not healed?_

Still clenching the beloved violin case and the storybook to her chest, Christine sand into the armchair, which swallowed her comfortably. First gently setting down the violin case beside her, she opened the anthology of folktales and began to read.

* * *

"Angel?" 

Christine glanced up, startled, as Erik addressed her. Maybe it was partly from her surprise, but she was still struck by his towering presence, his extraordinary eyes glowing sedately down at her as his cloak swirled gently around his thin frame.

"Yes?" Christine stammered.

"Did I frighten you?" he asked softly.

"No, no, you only surprised me," she insisted.

"You have been here reading for several hours, Christine. You did not even respond when I came here earlier and asked if you wanted any dinner. Are you not hungry?"

"I am," she admitted. "But I did not want to stop reading."

Erik lifted one tome from the small stack that Christine had accumulated. "Feeling a bit nostalgic?"

"A bit. I saw the folktales, and I remembered my father reading some of them to myself and Raoul."

"You enjoy remembering your childhood?"

Christine winced at the bitterness in her teacher's words. _I shouldn't have mentioned Raoul. Is Erik jealous that Raoul is involved in some of my most treasured memories?_ She lowered her eyes. "I do enjoy remembering my father. Reading all those old folktales helps."

"I see." His voice was gentler after hearing Christine's explanation. "Would you like your supper now?"

"I would, yes."

Erik led Christine to the kitchen again. Her supper—soup—was already finished, warming on the stove.

"Are you going to eat anything?" Christine queried.

"Perhaps," he replied offhandedly.

"You should," she whispered.

"If you say so," Erik conceded. _Perhaps she would not notice if I simply sat with a bowl in front of me and ate nothing._

Erik ladled out soup for both himself and Christine, and poured water for Christine. "It is also Ayesha's dinnertime," he remarked as he laid his protégé's bowl in front of her. "I must feed her now." He returned to his wall of cabinets and opened a tall one with a flat base and a long curved door shaped live an oval that had been halved vertically. To Christine's surprise, this cabinet seemed to be an icehouse. Erik retrieved Ayesha's dinner from the cabinet and swept out of the kitchen.

Christine ran her hands through her hair, her mind still imbued with the achingly familiar Swedish folktales she had just read. An image of her father smiling gently as Christine begged for a story floated into her thoughts. _What would Papa think of this situation? Or Raoul? It was Raoul who wanted to set the trap for Erik…what would he want me to do?_ Christine stood and strode to Erik's wall of cabinets. Which one held the herbal concoctions? Oh yes…the one with the triangular door…

Erik had labeled all of his concoctions. A few were marked "poison," along with the active ingredient. Christine selected one of these, labeled "nerium oleander." It was full of pale-green liquid and the small glass container shivered in her hand. _This is what I should do, right? How many times did Raoul tell me I was doing the right thing before the Don Juan performance?_

_The Don Juan performance…_ With the phrase, a fresh picture appeared before her eyes. _Point of No Return_ had just ended, and Erik was no longer holding her; he faced her, clutching her hands desperately, caressing her knuckles as he sang.

The full force of what Christine was about to do struck her. She threw the door of the cabinet open and jammed the little vial back in its slot, her stomach heaving in self-disgust. _After everything he has done for you—saved you three times when he cared nothing for his own life—you want him dead simply because Raoul does? And he calls himself the monster!_

When Erik returned, Christine was sitting at her place once more, eating slowly. She glanced up at him, almost guiltily.

"Is something wrong, angel?"

"No…nothing."

"Very well." Erik lowered himself gracefully into his chair.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"…you are a much better cook than whoever prepares the meals for the ballet corps." She smiled gently.

Erik had to struggle not to return her smile. "I try."

* * *

After they were both finished eating (Christine was truly the only one who ate), Erik led her back to the library. 

"Where did you get all of these books?" Christine queried.

"My various travels," Erik replied offhandedly. "And some I bought here, in a sort of remembrance of the places I have been."

"Where have you traveled?" she pressed.

"I have seen Persia—as you know—as well as Spain, Italy, Russia, Belgium, and many places in the Orient."

"I'll lay odds you know many interesting stories, then," Christine remarked.

"I do, as a matter of fact, if you would like to hear a few."

Christine looked up at him, her cocoa-colored eyes gone soft with wonder. "Yes, I would."

"As you wish." He guided Christine into the armchair, and knelt at her side. "This first story comes from Russia…"

Christine was nearly as enthralled by Erik's storytelling as she was by his music. The first tale that she heard was called _The Little Humpbacked Horse_, the story of a boy called Little Fool Ivan who came into possession of a small magical horse with a hump on its back and unnaturally long ears who guided him through marvelous adventures. With the little horse's aid, Little Fool Ivan bested the Tsar at a fatal contest of jumping into three cauldrons of boiling liquid and married the Girl Tsar, who had been engaged against her will to marry the Tsar.

When she begged him for another story, he told her of a garden in the small Chinese fishing city of Suzhou that was called the Garden of the Master of Nets. The emperor's daughter had been strolling in the garden when she fell into the pool. The princess was unable to swim, but a man who had been fishing in the garden rescued her. The emperor's daughter returned to the palace soaking wet, and when she recounted the story of her rescue, the emperor immediately led a procession to the garden, which he named the Garden of the Master of Nets after the fisherman who had saved his daughter.

Still, Christine wanted to hear more. Erik was an extraordinary storyteller; he was able to weave the words of the tales in such a way that the listener was wrapped in the characters and their exploits, as if actually witnessing the story's events. Christine pleaded for two more stories, and he obliged.

The first yarn detailed the life of a Luck Child, a seventh son of a seventh son, who was said to one day become king. The Luck Child, aptly named Lucky, survived two assassination attempts by the current king, a selfish and devilish individual who kept his people in poverty. The boy arrived at the king's castle where he fell in love with the princess, who loved him back equally. Furious, the king ordered the boy to fetch a wedding gift for the princess: the gold feather of a fearsome Gryphon, a creature that no man had ever faced and survived, for the Gryphon lived on death's side of the River Styx. With the help of a friendly dwarf, Lucky took the Gryphon's gold feather, and learned how the poor ferryman of the River Styx was to break the curse that condemned him to carry people to their deaths. The ferryman tricked the king into becoming the new eternal ferryman, and Lucky married the princess.

The second story was an ancient myth, a story of a Greek king named Admetus who was deeply in love with the princess Alcestis, daughter of the king of another sovereignty. Alcestis's father, who did not want his daughter to leave him, refused to allow Alcestis to marry Admetus unless the lovesick king rode to greet his princess in a chariot drawn by boars and lions. Admetus described his plight to his friend, a young shepherd who played unnaturally beautiful lute music, and the shepherd vanished one day and returned riding a chariot driven by two boars and two lions. Convinced that his shepherd friend was truly a prince or a god, Admetus thanked him profusely and rode off to Alcestis's kingdom. Admetus and Alcestis were happily married, but soon Admetus was stricken with a fatal illness. Concerned, the shepherd—who was actually the god Apollo—journeyed to the lair of the three Fates, the sisters who spun, wound, and cut the threads of life. Apollo pled with the eldest Fate not to cut Admetus's thread; the Fate agreed, but only if someone promised to die in Admetus's stead. Alcestis quickly offered herself in Admetus's place, and she sickened quickly as Admetus healed. Palace servants summoned the mighty hero Heracles to save their queen, and Heracles went to Alcestis's chambers and wrestled mightily with Death when he arrived to carry Alcestis away. Finally, Heracles threw Death out of the palace, and no amount of commanding from the Fates would convince him to return. Alcestis returned to good health, and she and Admetus were joyful once more. As for the Apollo, his time on Earth was finished, and he revealed his true identity to the king and queen before returning to Olympus.

After hearing so many exotic stories, Christine had to sit back in her chair and close her eyes while allowing reality to sink back in. _The way he recites a story…it's as if he could truly transport me into one of those tales!_

"Christine? Are you all right?"

She opened her eyes and smiled lightly. "I am fine. You are a born storyteller, Erik."

He dipped his head briefly. "Thank you. I have heard the same before."

"I'm not surprised," Christine remarked. "It's absolutely true."

Erik said simply, "I am glad you enjoyed my stories." _Fairy tales…where the monsters always die, and there is always a happily ever after for the ones that deserve it._

"I think my favorite was the one about the humpbacked horse. No one would have wanted to take him away from Ivan because he looked so strange, but without him Ivan would never have survived." Christine remarked.

"Despite his odd appearance, the humpbacked horse is quite…endearing." Erik agreed. "I thought you would like that particular tale."

"And I'm glad that the Girl Tsar got to marry Ivan," Christine continued. "In most fairy tales, some of the men in the story are wed to beautiful princesses, and it's never mentioned how the princess feels! The Girl Tsar even said that she did not want to marry the Tsar."

The Opera Ghost gazed at her contemplatively. "So…you would sometimes disagree with the handsome young hero prince marrying the princess?"

Christine interlaced her fingers. "I suppose it's all right, just for the sake of it being a fairy tale…but sometimes I wish the story would mention that the princess was happy with the arrangement."

"I would imagine so." Erik's voice was dark and heavy, reminding Christine strangely of a heavy steel ball on the end of a prisoner's chains. _She knows what it is like to almost be forced into a union. No doubt she can connect to the Girl Tsar._

An idea popped into Christine's mind, sudden as a rabbit bolting from his warren. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Would you tell me another story? But this time, one about something that happened to you?"

Erik pressed his palms together, as if in prayer, but he pressed the thumbs to the place between his eyes. "Do you know what you are asking?"

"Ye…es," Christine replied hesitantly.

"Any story of that sort would only serve to make you hate me more than you already do. Or perhaps frighten you."

She blinked. "But…I don't hate you."

"You are an excellent actress, Christine." Erik smiled wryly. "At least I know I trained you well."

"I want to hear a story about _you._ Please?" she implored softly.

"As you wish," came the slow reply. Then, without preamble, Erik began speaking. "I was perhaps fourteen—I could not be certain, for even to this day, I do not know my own age—when I first met Giovanni. This was the man who became almost like a father to me, Christine. He was a genuine artist, a genius at the craft of the stonemason. The day we first met, I was trespassing…"

Christine listened intently, the same way she had behaved during Erik's recitations of fairy tales. But this story was completely different, the polar opposite of the other. This tale was stark and yet beautiful in its description, and very real.

Erik told of the way the man Giovanni had impulsively taken him on as a sort of student. He recalled how Giovanni had taken him to the Vatican, and how Erik had calmly denied the existence of God. He described his own wariness when Giovanni offered to let Erik stay in his home as an apprentice, and his quickness with the stone-working that allowed him to make a mockery of the apprentice system. Christine found tears springing to her eyes when Erik vividly detailed the sacrifice of Giovanni's reputation in return for Erik's apprenticeship.

"Giovanni never told me about his daughter," Erik said abruptly. "I first met her when she arrived home from school, flushed with the excitement of her return. Her name was Luciana. She was willful, extremely headstrong, sometimes suicidally impulsive…and she was extraordinarily beautiful."

"Was she, now?" Christine interjected dryly. Erik gave her a surprised glance. _It isn't like Christine to snap things like that…could she be jealous? Of course not! Such a completely ridiculous notion_…

"I halfway loved that girl…just the callow first love of a teenaged boy." Erik continued.

Even as she heard Erik's account of a horribly tense month in which he struggled with his emotions, Christine tried to imagine him as a fourteen-year-old and failed.

"Luciana was half in love with me as well. Although, I suppose I should not say that—it sounds laughable say any woman was in love with me, doesn't it?—for Luciana fell in love with an enigma. Her feelings were not for a boy, but for the novelty and mystery of the mask I wore. Any attempt that she made to speak to me ended in awkwardness at best, disaster at worst."

Erik sighed and pressed his fingertips to his forehead. "And this story does indeed end in disaster."

Christine clutched his arm comfortingly, and in his painful reminiscence he forgot to pull away.

"Christine, I saw the tragedy coming. I knew it was going to happen. I tried to leave Giovanni's household, for my presence there had started out as a small disadvantage and had developed into this…this…growing aura of darkness that caused nothing but harm. He caught me leaving, and when I tried to explain why, he said I was being dramatic. But I wasn't being dramatic, Christine, only realistic."

_I am starting to think that the sound of my name soothes him…he says it more often as the story becomes darker._ The young woman reached with her free hand to twine her fingers with his, and he grasped her hand with a ferocity and desperation that was almost frightening.

"The disaster came when Luciana asked me to remove my mask. I can remember that night so clearly…! Luciana and Giovanni and I were standing on the balcony. I had told Giovanni that that one stone had to be re-mortared…I told him…!"

"Erik!" Christine cried softly, alarmed by this sudden display of emotion. Erik lowered his head and inhaled and exhaled deeply one or two times. "What happened?"

The next words were spoken with an almost eerie calm. "I looked to Giovanni. I hoped that he would reason with his daughter; tell her that I could not possibly take off the mask. But he did not. For you see, he had never seen me without it. He did not know…" Erik trailed off.

"Luciana reacted…badly when she saw my face. It was the same look I have forced upon you so many times: raw, undisguised terror, so horrible it reduces the person to nothing more than an incarnation of fear. I was angry. I was angry at her reaction, I was angry at my own hideousness, I was angry at Giovanni…for I had come to think of him as my father, and I relied on him to protect me from removing my last line of defense. I took her by the shoulders and I shouted at her; I made no attempt to harm her. But she turned from me in hysteria. In her panic, she simply ran into the balcony. The stone gave way, and she fell."

"Was…was she all right?" Christine whispered breathlessly.

"She died, Christine." The statement was one of simple truth, and it carried an indescribable heaviness, a looming black weight that Erik had been forced to bear for God knew how many years.

_Now I know how Heracles felt when he had to hold the sky in Atlas's place_, Christine thought with a shiver.

"So you see what a monster I am, Christine? Luciana died that night…because of me." Erik's voice was limp and strained; every word was a struggle.

"Because of you?" Christine echoed, on the verge of outrage. "It was not because of you! Luciana should not have panicked, and Giovanni should have reasoned with her! And it most certainly was not your fault the stone needed to be repaired!"

Erik met her eyes with just the faintest glimmer of hope. "You think I was not to blame for Luciana's death?"

"Of course not!" Impulsively, Christine leaned forward and wrapped her arms firmly around Erik's neck. But by this time, he had the consciousness to reject her embrace, and he did so by standing up.

"Giovanni likely would have said the same thing…but I ran just after Luciana fell. We never saw each other again."

Christine got to her feet, facing Erik with a sort of determination. "When you tell me these things, I feel very compelled to embrace you."

"I will not permit you to do such a thing," Erik retorted, his eyes hardening.

"Why?"

"I refuse to allow you defile yourself that way."

"'Defile?' It's only an embrace!" Christine protested.

"Perhaps it wouldn't be so terrible if I were a man, but you remember that I asked you to look behind the monstrosity of my face and find who I truly am. You did just that, and you found a monstrosity worse than the one that my mask covers." His tone was almost flippant.

Christine's hands balled into fists. "If you call yourself a monster one more time, I may…I may…I may be forced to slap you!" she screamed.

Erik very nearly burst out laughing. In the midst of a tragic, rather angst-ridden mood, Christine flew into a passion that, while extreme on her part, was in a way quite hilarious. Erik had only seen her that angry once, when Carlotta had snidely told her that her singing sounded like the whistling of a teakettle.

But Christine's outburst was fading; she could never be strongly angry for a very long time.

"…Erik?"

"Yes, my child?"

"I'm a little…I'm a little tired." Her voice was very small, as if it had shrunken.

"If you wish to sleep, I will make no attempt to stop you."

Christine nodded. "Thank you. Are you going to sleep soon as well?"

"I sleep rarely, if ever."

"Erik, you don't eat or sleep…how is it possible that you survive?"

"That is an excellent question, Christine. I do not know the answer." _I could say that a monster doesn't need as much sleep as a human, but Christine might slap me, and I'm certain it would hurt her feelings if I laughed._

"Well…I suppose I'll go now," she replied unsteadily, turning to leave. _He doesn't eat much or sleep…did he use to sleep more before he found out about Raoul and me? It seems almost like he's killing himself in the slowest, most torturous way possible…and it's frightening me._

Erik shelved the books that Christine had been reading earlier. _Why did I accede to her request? I jumped into that story of Giovanni and Luciana like a mad diver hurling himself onto a rocky shoal…I thought Christine would only hate me more after that particular tale, but no, she only feels sorry for me, poor sympathetic child. If she begins feeling too sorry for me, she may lead herself to believe that she is attached to me in some way…God knows what horrid things could result from that…_

Christine returned to her chambers and stripped down to her chemise. She briefly searched her saddlebags and found a cream-colored sleeping robe, which she slipped over her shoulders and buttoned. She climbed into the black swan bed and pulled the red silken covers over her body. _Erik certainly took care that I would be comfortable if I were to stay here,_ she mused. _I wonder where he sleeps…it would be interesting to see if his quarters are half as luxurious as mine, considering that he cares so much more for my well-being than his own._

She turned onto her side, her face halfway pressing into the velvety material of the pillow. _I certainly hope he does sleep tonight…between his neglect of both food and sleep, he's sure to wear down very soon…_

It was the last thing that crossed her mind before she slept.

* * *

"Erik!" 

He glanced away from his composition. The voice he had heard was sharp and stern, not the voice of a dream or hallucination. And the voice was familiar.

A strange and faintly amusing scene met Erik's eyes. Madame Giry had sailed the gondola from the lake's shore, where the Chagny boy had undoubtedly left it, to the gate that separated Erik's home from the canal.

"I would be much obliged if you would open this gate!" she called with an iciness that rivaled Erik's own.

"Come to talk some sense into the resident madman, Madame?" he called airily over the thick, stirring mists of the lake.

"Don't play games with me, Monsieur, not when it comes to one of my girls!"

Of course. Christine may have become a celebrated solo star, but Madame Giry still thought of the young singer as one of her ballet girls. Madame was fiercely protective of her ballet corps; she was often likened to a mother tiger protecting her cubs. Without another word, Erik strode to the lever that controlled the grate and flipped it.

Standing stiff and tall as a Medieval bastion, the ballet mistress poled the gondola up to the lake's shore. With a single step, the slit on the ground and smoothed the wrinkles from her gown with supreme dignity.

_Why am I suddenly intimidated?_ Erik wondered warily.

Madame Giry cut straight to the heart of the situation. "Monsieur le Vicomte contacted me not a few hours ago. I understand you are holding Christine here."

"Not _holding_, Madame. She agreed to stay here for three days. After she leaves, she will never have the misfortune of seeing me again," retorted Erik smoothly.

The ballet mistress's mouth tightened into a grim slash. "You expect me to believe that Christine is here willingly?"

"You think I have her chained here like a slave?"

"If you ordered her to stay," Madame Giry countered stiffly, "how could she refuse without fearing for her life?"

Erik frowned. "It was much more of a request than an order. Not to mention Christine knows I would sooner sever my left arm than harm her."

"Oh, not your right arm?"

"I am left-handed."

"Erik," she sighed, "where is the good in this? You want to prolong Christine's suffering? And I suppose she believes she will only be here three days…"

"She _will _be here only three days."

"Truly?" Madame Giry's voice was undeniably skeptical.

"Yes. I will return her to the Chagny household as soon as she wakes on the fourth day."

"Have you been treating her well?" The question was not blunt; it was sharp as a machete.

"I have been treating her like the angel she is. You think I would torture her, Madame? I thought you knew me better than that." Erik placed a hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture of hurt feelings.

"I thought I did as well." Madame Giry's words sliced into the air. "But you have proved me wrong."

"So you have proof that I have harmed Christine?" Erik's expression might have been carved from bedrock.

"I do." The two words dropped like lead weights. "She's not healthy. Ever you since you showed up at the masquerade ball, the poor girl has been run ragged. She's always on edge, jumping at the smallest noises. She's on the verge of illness, Erik. She's lost quite a bit of weight, though she had none to lose in the first place…doubtless you noticed that." The last few words were spoken with more contempt than most people would consider humanly possible.

"I had noticed her eating less at mealtimes, yes," Erik replied without any hesitation. _I had noticed that Christine was becoming unhealthily thin, but there was nothing I could do…she would have panicked if I had approached her. Of course, if I mention that, Madame will think that I have been…_studying _Christine._

"I wonder if she's not ill now, living in these dark chambers! She can't survive down here, Erik. This isn't a place for any young woman, certainly not a delicate girl like Christine."

"She did sicken last night—she insisted on wading through the lake and had nothing to change into except for one of her costumes. I cured her quite easily, of course."

"You allowed her to stay here even after she sickened?" Madame Giry cried, concerned, almost scandalized.

"It took a much shorter amount of time to cure her myself than to take her to a doctor. Besides, any of my herbal medicines are much more effective than anything the hospitals would have."

Madame Giry sighed and clasped her hands. "Erik, listen to yourself. You completely dismiss the idea that anyone else could help her. You think only of the way _you_ would treat Christine's illness."

Erik glanced sharply at her. _I do _not _fancy finding out where this is going._ "Your point, Madame?"

"Erik," she said rather quietly (Erik found her sudden change of mood almost frightening), "I may disagree with your…actions of late, but I still do know some of the hardships you have faced. And I know that you have known very little of love."

"Your _point_, Madame?" Erik snapped.

"Are you certain that you love her?"

The simple question had the same effect on Erik as a powerful tranquilizer gun has on an elephant. The idea that he might not love Christine had never crossed his mind…for how could there be any doubt whatsoever of that fact? Erik knew his obsession with Christine had eclipsed all other aspects of his life, even music. The obsession was not twisted or prurient or anything of that sort…rather, he had become obsessed with nurturing Christine's voice and soul.

"Bite your _tongue_, Madame!" Erik snarled when he could speak again. "If you had even the slightest idea of what I feel for that girl…"

Madame Giry lifted her palms in a disarming gesture. "I see this will get me nowhere…" Her iciness returned as abruptly as it had vanished. "Where is Christine?"

"Asleep…though I expect she is awake by now."

Standing just behind the silver curtain, Christine flinched. She had indeed been awakened; by Erik's shout of "Your _point_, Madame?"

Erik turned to face Christine's chambers. "Christine!" he called. "It's all right, angel. You can come out now."

"Again, Erik, listen to yourself. Christine will soon be the Vicomtess de Chagny. She is _not_ your angel!"

"I never said she was _my_ angel, Madame. I simply called her _an_ angel, and she certainly is one." Erik allowed himself a small smile as he watched Christine shyly brush the silver material aside.

The Scandinavian girl slipped out from behind the curtain began descending towards the place where Erik and Madame Giry stood. Brushing Erik aside, the ballet instructor rushed to her former student and embraced her tightly.

"Madame Giry!" Christine cried happily, returning the hug.

Madame Giry stepped back and held Christine's face in both hands. "Are you all right, Christine?"

"Yes, Madame, I'm fine." Christine smiled.

"I see you two would like a private conversation now," said Erik with icy formality. "If you need me, I shall be in my soundproof composition room." He retreated to one edge of the room and vanished, not behind a curtain, but behind an actual door.

"Come, Christine." Madame Giry beckoned. "If we leave now, we may be gone before he realizes you've left."

"Wait…you are saying I should simply leave now?" Christine backed away. "Without letting Erik know?"

"That is exactly the point, Christine. You can't tell me that you _wish_ to stay here!"

"I did say I would stay here for three days." Christine asserted softly. "I did think it was fitting…one day for each time he saved my life."

"He saved you three times?" Madame repeated. "When did this happen?"

"Last night…I wanted to make sure he survived. I returned to this place and found him, hiding in one of the tunnels. He…he wasn't trying to escape. He was going to let the mob kill him. But when we heard the mob start blaming me for everything that had happened, since I had known where Erik was living…he took me into one of the deeper chambers. While we stayed in that chamber, I fell asleep, and I screamed from a nightmare. The mob heard me and started to pound on the wall, so Erik took me to a chamber just below the one…so that's twice that he saved me."

"And the third time?" Madame Giry prompted, still thrown by the idea that Erik cared so much more for Christine's life than his own.

"As we ran from the mob the first time, there was a cave-in…he pushed me out of the way and was buried. But he was all right…" Christine trailed off, then suddenly cried out. "Oh! The rocks tore the back of his shirt open, and I saw…oh, Madame, he has the most terrible scars! He told me…he said that he'd been used as a freak show attraction in a Gypsy fair, and his keeper beat him! You should have seen it, it was so awful…his entire back was covered, in some places there wasn't any skin left, just scarring…"

"I did know he was beaten when he was small," said Madame Giry slowly, "but I have never seen his scars."

"Do you know the things that have happened to him?" Christine whispered, as if Erik might still hear her. "It is truly amazing that he survived…and I do get the feeling that I've barely begun learning all the horrible things that he has been through."

Madame Giry took the younger woman by the shoulders. "You aren't taking it upon yourself to keep Erik company because you feel sympathy for him, are you?" she asked gently.

Christine shook her head. "No…staying with him really isn't at all horrid or frightening, or…or anything. He is really quite kind to me. He gave me another voice lesson today, and…did you know he composed his own requiem? He played it for me…it was so _beautiful_!"

"So he is treating you well? Is he…has he…hurt you at all?"

Christine's gaze snapped upward in comprehension. "No! No, of course not…actually, he refuses to touch me. I'm not…sure why…I think he worries that I'll be disgusted, or something like that."

"Is he…feeding you properly?"

Christine actually laughed. "Of course he is, Madame…he's a much better cook than whoever prepares meals for the ballet corps."

Madame Giry's hard mouth broke into a smile. "Meg has informed me often enough that we need a new cook for my ballet girls."

Christine frowned slowly. "He is not eating, though. He says that…he hasn't eaten much at all since he saw Raoul and me sing together on the roof. I suppose that his hunger takes his mind off of me."

Madame Giry sighed. _Still the innocent little girl she was thirteen years ago. _"Christine…he is likely lying to make you feel as if he needs you to survive."

Christine shook her head, dark curls bouncing. "No, that can't be it…no…I had to repeatedly ask him why he was so thin. He's lost so much weight! He's barely more than a skeleton now! It's a miracle he survived, he was already rather thin when I last saw him…"

_This is oddly similar to what I said to Erik about her just a minute ago. God in heaven, this is quite a mess…_

"Do you feel safe here? Alone with just him?" Madame Giry questioned.

Christine chewed her lower lip, then nodded slowly. "I used to think that perhaps he just…his obsession with me was nothing but madness…but he truly does care for me, Madame, I've seen it…it's…it's like I said, he was going to let the mob kill him, but when he found out they were after me too…he would put his own life on the line to save me."

"You're certain?"

Christine dipped her head in affirmation once more. "I'm certain. I want to stay the three days. He did teach me all I know about singing, and he tried to make my dreams come true…I owe him a few days of my company, at the least."

The ballet mistress gave her daughter's friend another quick embrace. "If you are completely certain, Christine, then…I wish you luck."

Christine smiled. "I should get Erik, then…" she ran to the door behind which Erik had vanished and knocked.

The door inched open and Erik slipped out with his usual graceful agility. "Decided not to run away behind my back, did you? It was a perfect opportunity, Christine…you might have taken it…"

"Erik…!" Almost playfully, Christine wrapped her hands around the lapels of Erik's jacket. He reached around cautiously to caress a few of the silky curls at the back of her head.

"You _will_ take care of her, Erik." Madame Giry's trademark sternness was back.

"I will," Erik vowed softly, stroking a single lock of his angel's hair between his thumb and forefinger.

"And she _will _be back at Raoul de Chagny's home in two more days."

"She will." Another firm promise that would never be broken.

"Well, then, I believe my business is finished here." Madame Giry flipped her long ginger-colored braid over her shoulder. "Erik, would you be so kind…?"

"Of course, Madame," Erik replied cordially. The ballet mistress lowered herself delicately into the gondola, keeping her back straight as a ramrod. Erik stepped into the front of the gondola and took up the pole. "You may go back to sleep, Christine. I will be back in a few minutes."

Christine nodded and watched as her Angel of Music rowed her former ballet instructor and surrogate mother across the lake. Though Erik had told her that she could go back to sleep, she sat at the lake's edge and waited.

When Erik returned the gondola to the grotto, he knelt beside her and addressed her gently. "I thought you would be back in bed by now."

"I…felt like waiting." She hugged her knees to her chest.

Erik held his hand a few centimeters below her chin, as if to lift her face up. She met his eyes, as she suspected was his intention.

"You're lucky," he whispered, "that your teacher is so protective of you…even if she is a bit frightening."

A tiny smile curled Christine's mouth.

"It's good to know there are people on your side, isn't it?"

"Yes…it is." Christine stood, and Erik followed swiftly.

"Do you wish to sleep now?"

"Yes."

"In that case…good night, Christine. Sleep well." His words, though polite, were remarkably caring.

"Thank you." She stood before him for a few seconds, unsure of what to do next.

"Go on," Erik urged her softly.

"…Good night, Erik." Christine returned to her bedchambers, crawling back underneath the covers. _I never expected Madame Giry to come down here to try and "rescue" me…it was kind of her, even if I don't truly need rescuing._

She closed her eyes, picturing Erik bent over his composition, Ayesha sitting loyally at his side. _I hope he does sleep…he deserves some rest after being interrogated by Madame Giry, the tigress mother of the ballet corps…_

When Christine slipped lightly into slumber, a smile still lingered on her lips.

* * *

A/N: So, Madame Giry is purely ALW-movie because she has a small role in most other versions. She did kind of take Daroga's place in the story, but I love her character despite that. Since Nadir got royally gypped when it came to the ALW movie, he will have a cameo in the next day. 

_The Little Humpbacked Horse_ is traditional Russian folktale that I encountered in one of the editions of _Junior Great Books_ (anthologies of short stories that my classes read in elementary school). I heard the story of the Garden of the Master of Nets when I was in Suzhou, China; it is actually true. _The Luck Child_ comes from _Jim Henson's The Storyteller_ by Anthony Minghella. The myth is _Admetus and Alcestis_, my favorite Greek myth from the book _A Children's Treasury of Mythology_.

The reason this day was split into two was because this entire day would have been 34 pages on Microsoft Word in size 9 Verdana if I had kept it as one chapter. No one has that much patience, or time.

Musical term definitions:

coloratura: requiring a very high voice

descant: usually wordless counterpart or melody sung or played above a theme, often the highest part sung, also often beginning on a high note and descending

introit: introductory movement of a requiem, including the Latin text "Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Te decet hymnus Deus, in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Ierusalem. Exaudi orationem meam; ad te omnis caro veniet."

Kyrie: movement of a requiem that includes the Greek text "Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison," usually with each phrase repeated three times

Pie Jesu (or Pie Iesu): added movement of a requiem that paraphrases the final verse of two specific other movements; includes the Latin text "pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Dona eis requiem sempiternam."

register: similar to range; set of pitches for an instrument or voice (i.e., a violin is set in a higher register than the cello)

triad: in this context, a group of three tones built on a given root tone plus a major third


	4. Day Two Part One

Three Days

Day Two: Probity  
Part One

Summary: Slightly AU; what if Christine ran back to Erik as the mob approached, just to make sure he survived? And what if she stayed in Erik's kingdom of darkness for three days before returning to Raoul? ALW-based, with Kay influence because I FINALLY READ _PHANTOM_! w00t!

Disclaimer: If I owned _Phantom of the Opera_ and its many versions, Erik and Christine would have ended up together. So needless to say, I don't own any of them. (And if Kay's ending can be construed as Erik and Christine ending up together, I still don't own it.)

Pairings: Erik/Christine (doy)

Author's Notes: The idea of Erik caring for the wounded bats in this chapter is derived from the scene in _Phantom_ when Nadir finds Erik's apartment full of wounded animals, presumably animals that Erik is nursing back to health. Besides, I love bats. They're so _cute_.

We will see a bit of Erik's temper in this day, if not this chapter. And Christine will learn that, despite Erik's reputation for killing rages, he won't harm her even if he is going ballistic. Aww.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christine woke slowly, the dark cocoon of sleep lifting itself leisurely from her consciousness.

Erik's home was completely silent. Christine found this just slightly strange; normally there was some sound, whether it was the soft flickering of dozens of candles or the dripping of stalactites into the lake's glassy surface. But she heard nothing. She sat up and listened intently, her head cocked to one side, until her ears began to ache slightly from the strain of listening to utter stillness.

She gently brushed aside the silver curtain that separated her chambers from the rest of Erik's home. Stepping halfway out of her bedroom, Christine scanned the scene before her. The candelabra were still lit, just as they had been the morning before, yet somehow the candles seemed no shorter, and their small lively flames made no noise at all. She turned her eyes to the pipe organ, almost hoping that she would not see Erik there; if he were absent from the organ's bench, he was likely asleep.

Naturally, he was still bent over his latest composition. Or perhaps it was another one of his projects; Christine could not tell from that distance. _Did he stay there all night? Or did he simply go to sleep after I did and wake earlier? Come to think of it…where does he sleep? Perhaps I'll ask him later._

She retreated back into her room, walking past her bed to a mahogany door secured into the wall. She pulled it open and slipped inside, choosing to close the door but not bolt it. Erik had doubtless put the bolt on the door to help make Christine feel sure of her privacy, for this room was Christine's private bathroom.

Erik had obviously taken great care in ensuring her comfort. The bathroom had a sort of opulence to it, like a Turkish bathhouse, tiled and painted all in varying shades of lilac (what else?). Christine's bathtub was large and luxurious, not made in the oh-so-fashionable claw-footed style that Christine had always found off-putting, but supported by small golden curls of metal. The space was easily as large as her bedchamber, and three-foot-high, graceful white candelabra shaped somewhat like wineglasses stood in each corner to prevent the room from seeming empty. Christine crossed to one of the candelabra to admire the clever way the individual taper holders were arranged in concentric circles to affect the shape of an upside-down half-sphere. _Erik certainly loves candles, doesn't he? Well, so do I._

Christine ran the water for her bath (the last time she had washed had been before the _Don Juan_ performance, and, well, quite a bit had happened since that time) and removed her chemise and robe. She lowered herself into the warm water, allowing the heat to seep the tension from her body. The tub was long enough for her to completely lie down, and a small pillow for her head was affixed to one porcelain edge. She lay back and looked up at the ceiling thoughtlessly for a while, clearing her mind and simply relaxing.

Eventually, she got around to washing her hair and her body, and when she was finished, she stepped onto the floor and dried herself with a towel that was hanging on a convenient bar beside the tub. There was a pale violet dressing gown hooked on a small clothing rack beside the towel's bar; after Christine was reasonably dry, she took the gown from where it was suspended and put it on. It was a sight more modest than the other two dressing gowns that Christine owned, but she didn't mind; she found it a welcome change from the scanty opera costumes that she wore more often than her own clothes. And besides, many of her everyday gowns were cut to be almost scandalously revealing, a fashion that had often made Christine feel awkward and uneasy when wearing such things.

She searched her saddlebags once more; upon finding her wooden comb, she set to the grim task of untangling her hair. Its thickness and length made this difficult enough, but as soon as her hair began to dry, its natural curls would spring back into place and make the undertaking nearly impossible. Christine almost never combed her own wet hair by herself; Meg or one of the other ballet girls would help her.

Christine struggled to part her hair down the center in the back, so she could bring each half of hair to the front and comb it that way. The strands were far too snarled to even do that, at least without aid, and the curls were already rebelling against the wetness. She reached back with the comb to try and smooth her hair that way, but the moist locks simply tangled around the wide tines of the comb and stuck.

Frustrated, Christine made the decision to ask Erik to help her untangle her sodden mane. Surely he wouldn't mind…

Christine delicately inserted her feet into her slippers and made her way down to Erik's organ. He was completely absorbed in his work; of course, a composition. _I wonder if he's been working on the same thing the entire time I've been here, or if he is writing many different pieces at once._

She gently tapped him on the shoulder. "Erik…?"

He glanced swiftly up at her, only to return his gaze to his paper. "Christine, please reassure me you are _aware_ of the fact that you're wearing a dressing gown." _Well…this isn't awkward at all. Truly!_

"Yes, I know." She perched on the bench beside him. "Why does it matter? The first time I came down here, I was only wearing my white dressing gown, which is less modest than this one. Besides, this one is very comfortable…but in any case, you have seen me in less than this."

"I shouldn't have," he replied stiffly. _Christine, I know you are capable of intelligent thought, so why do you traipse down here in that state? I also find it hard to believe that you would choose to wear a dressing gown that you know I bought for you…_

"Erik, it's all right, really. I came over here to ask you if you would please help me comb my hair. It's rather hard to do on my own…I used to get Meg or one of the other ballet girls to help me." She placed her comb beside Erik's composition.

"As you wish."

Christine swiveled to her back was to Erik. She felt him gently part her mass of hair into two sections (_How can he do that when I miserably failed only a moment ago_?), then lift one in his hand. His fingers tightened around the chestnut curls to prevent pulling at Christine's scalp as he slowly ran the comb's teeth through the very ends of her hair. "Does that hurt you, angel?"

"No…not at all."

Erik continued to brush the soft fall of damp brunette silk hanging from Christine's head, carefully working the worst knots out with his adroit musician's fingers. _Is this truly happening? Christine _asked _me to comb her hair? It is still a part of her person, after all, and her scalp is so sensitive…_

"You're much gentler than Meg was," remarked Christine.

Erik paused in the middle of undoing a sizeable tangle. When he spoke, Christine could barely make out his reply. "I don't wish to cause you any pain."

"Meg always pulled my hair. I think she does that to keep me from falling asleep."

"You are doing a fine job staying awake now."

"It isn't easy." Christine smiled, the strain of a slight moan coloring her voice.

As Erik finished untangling Christine's hair, she found herself waiting for his fingers to brush her scalp or shoulder, even by accident. After a few minutes, her anticipation proved fruitless; Erik took exceptional care to not touch any part of her except her hair.

"Erik, if I didn't know any better, I would think you had years of practice brushing a lady's hair," Christine groaned softly, unable to battle the undeniably soothing feeling of having her hair combed.

"I hope you won't be disappointed when I tell you that you couldn't be more wrong." Having finished working on one half of Christine's hair, Erik reached for the other half, and as he did so a single fingertip brushed inadvertently against her cheek. "I apologize." He drew sharply away from her.

"It's all right, Erik. I don't honestly understand why you feel as if you can't touch me."

"It is partly because I don't deserve to touch you, and partly because you shouldn't have to endure such a thing." Erik began brushing Christine's curls again.

"You make it sound as if you would be torturing me, but really, I don't mind."

Erik said nothing, slowly running the teeth's comb through a single dark lock. Christine sat still, choosing to close her eyes and enjoy the sensation of her tutor brushing her hair. _He won't answer…well, if he's going to balk at explaining, I won't bother him._ Little did she know that he chose to remain silent so he would not have to recount disturbing nightmares in which a single touch or caress sent horrific burns or the festering, agonizing marks of some ghastly plague rippling across Christine's skin, and she would writhe and scream while Erik watched helplessly, for her condition only worsened if he touched her again. The memory alone of one of those dreams made Erik flinch, and he was not a man who often flinched.

"Christine?"

When she opened her eyes, she abruptly noticed something that she had not observed the day before: a small glass vase resting on the wooden space beside the organ's keyboards, containing a single lush red rose. It was a bloom just like the ones she had always received from Erik after performances, complete with a thornless stem and a black velvet ribbon. The image of the rose seemed to leap to the foreground of Christine's vision, such was the unexpected sight.

"Christine?"

She mentally shook herself, still wondering what Erik was doing with one of her roses in a vase. Weren't the roses meant only for performances? "Yes?"

"Your hair is brushed now." He handed her the comb.

"Oh…thank you." Christine responded haltingly.

"Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm all right."

"Would you like to continue your voice training now? That is, if you feel you're ready, having recently woken up."

"Yes, please." She hesitated. "I don't know what I'll do once I don't have you as my teacher."

"At this point, Christine, there is little more I can do except help you learn certain songs." His voice suddenly became completely somber. Christine had the strangest sensation that his eyes were piercing her back, but she did not recoil. "You know, Christine, once you marry that boy, it is likely that you will not be allowed to sing."

"What?" Christine nearly screamed, jerking forwards in surprise. She turned hastily on the bench, facing Erik with her eyes wide as sand dollars. _Raoul would forbid me from _singing_? But he knows that's the only thing I wanted to do with my life…even when we were young, I always told him that I dreamed of being a singer…_ "That can't be true! Raoul wouldn't keep me from doing something so important to me! I've…I've been devoted to music ever since I can remember!"

"Perhaps not him in particular, but his family will not approve of his marriage to a young woman not of noble standing, and they will certainly not approve of you performing. I would not be surprised if Monsieur le Vicomte's parents forbade him from marrying you unless he convinced you to stop singing."

Christine wrung her hands, crestfallen. "Are…are you sure?"

"It is a logical hypothesis. I can only hope I am wrong."

She pulled her folded legs to her chest, placing her chin in the crook between her knees. She seemed to sink into herself, or to simply contract.

"Are you all right, angel?" _I did not mean to frighten her…only to warn her_.

"I…I just can't imagine life without singing," she whispered, her voice shriveled and small.

Erik reached for her, his hands still trembling with faint apprehension as he took her cautiously by the shoulders. "Listen to me, my child. No matter what they say to you, you must not give up your singing. It would be wrong—it would be against nature—to let a gift such as yours go to waste. You have a truly extraordinary singing voice, Christine, a voice that perhaps one in every other generation is blessed with. You must share it with the world. Not only is it your duty, but it is also what you have always wanted…correct?"

"Yes!" Christine clenched her small fingers over the hands on her shoulders, the muscles standing out sharply over her knuckles. "Yes, always!"

"Christine…did you never think of what your life would be once you married the boy?"

She pressed her nose to her left kneecap. "N-no." She felt a hot rush of blood to her cheeks at her foolish reply. "I…I just wanted solace. I never gave much thought to the future, just how afraid I was. Raoul was willing to comfort me, so I…accepted what he offered me."

Erik carefully extricated his fingers from Christine's grip. "I do not blame you nor fault you for that decision, Christine; you love him." _God only knows why._ "But you must be prepared to defend your passion for music. You will not allow anyone to forbid you from singing, or coerce you into stopping. Yes?"

Christine nodded. "Yes." Her whisper was harsh and startlingly fierce.

"Do you wish for another lesson now?"

The reply came in the form of a wordless nod.

"Very well." Erik moved his papers clear of the keyboard and pulled the same score that Christine had practiced the day before—the requiem—and settled it into its place. "Singer's stance, Christine. You know that."

"Oh! Of course…I'm sorry." Flustered and mentally berating herself, Christine took her place beside the bench.

"Start with the usual warm-ups…"

The lesson progressed without notable incident. After Christine had finished with her warm-up exercises, Erik had her sing the Pie Jesu solo again, working on the projection of the sound while still maintaining the essential pure tone. The Pie Jesu nearly mastered, she once again practiced the descant in the Kyrie, this time working on keeping the pitch centered as the notes descended.

"Well done, Christine. That will be all." It was what he had always said to end their lessons. At this point, Christine used to say, "Thank you, Angel." Now, she simply bowed her head, unsure of how to reply. _Yesterday I avoided this by asking him to play the requiem for me. I could make that request once more…I certainly wouldn't mind hearing it again!_

It was Erik, though, who alleviated the uncomfortable situation (but unfortunately caused one even more uncomfortable in the process). "Christine?" At the sound of her name, she glanced up sharply, for her teacher's voice was quiet, almost tentative, a tone she had never heard from him before.

"Yes?" She slid back onto the wooden bench beside him. _Something is troubling him, I know. I wonder what is wrong?_

"There is something I have been meaning to ask you." His eyes seemed to be focused somewhere around his feet; he would not look at her.

"What is it?" Christine found herself lowering her voice to the same soft volume that Erik was using. When Erik paused, Christine felt the silence engulfing her like the stifling heat of a humid summer day.

He looked up at her, finally, his eyes holding hers calmly and without any frightening intensity. Christine swallowed, preparing herself for a loaded question.

Erik raised his hands, holding them with the gloved fingertips of one hand pressed against those of the other. Christine watched his mouth tighten into a firm line before the query came, in all serenity and sobriety: "Do you want me dead, Christine?"

The inquiry took Christine by surprise. She reacted physically, her body yanked backwards as if by the string of some invisible puppeteer. "Do I…what?"

"A simple yes or no will suffice, my child. I don't require an explanation for either one…though if by some slim chance the answer is no, I suppose I am curious." He spoke with gentleness rather than condescension.

"I…" _I can't fault him at all for asking me this. Erik knows perfectly well that if Raoul's _Don Juan _plan had proceeded without intervention, he would be dead. But how can I answer? But I don't want him dead now…right? I can't stand the idea of simply ending his life the way Raoul and I planned earlier…he has so much talent, if only he could show the world what he could do. I had to leave him a chance to do that; that's why I came back here…and he's not the mad, cruel monster I thought he was. Since I have been here, he has shown me nothing but kindness…_

Erik reached to hold his hand behind Christine's back, suspended a few centimeters from her body; it might have been intended as a gesture of comfort, but it seemed he could not bring himself to touch her, despite her reassurance. "If the answer is yes, that could easily be arranged after your departure…"

"No!" Christine screamed, startling both herself and Erik with her perfervid response as she clutched his arm. "No! Don't…don't even say that."

"Calm yourself, angel." He finally found the courage to place his hand on her back, cupping his other palm around the side of her head to caress her hair. "It was only a suggestion." _I suppose it is a good sign that she wants me alive now. She certainly acts as if she does, or else she's the best actress I've ever seen._

"A suggestion? You casually suggest that you kill yourself once I'm gone?" Her fingers tightened around his arm, her small fingers circling the thin limb easily.

Erik responded candidly, "If that is what you need to put your mind at rest, then, yes."

"Well, it's…it's _not_! I came back here because I wanted to make sure the mob didn't kill you! I didn't want you…your extraordinary talent for music…to simply be destroyed! You ought to publish your requiem, Erik…and you couldn't do that if you were dead!" Her voice rose in pitch to a note of near-hysteria.

"Hush, Christine." Erik stroked her scalp warily. _I won't tell her that her efforts were in vain…a mysterious masked man attempting to publish a piece of music? I'd be shot on sight, what with all the mad circulation of "Opera Ghost" stories of late._ "I was only wondering. You understand my curiosity, I trust?"

"Yes." Christine shut her eyes tightly. "I feel so guilty now…"

"You have no reason to feel guilty. Regardless of your current feelings…well, it may be a shame your boy's plan failed, but it was not your fault." His tone was cool and comforting, meant to soothe and reassure.

"A shame? But…if the plan had gone as intended, you would have been shot! I am supposed to not feel ashamed of participating in such a plan?" Christine's tongue seemed thick and useless as she spoke, and she worried that soon she might become so choked she would not be able to speak at all.

"You did nothing wrong, my angel. Quite the contrary; you did the right thing."

"I'm sorry." Christine whispered. The back of her head was beginning to throb to the increasingly painful thump of her heart. _I did the right thing. Oh, God, that is what Raoul kept telling me…but it's a different thing entirely to hear it from the man I tried to have shot like a rabid dog in the street!_

Erik continued as if Christine had never spoken, his head tipped contemplatively to the right. "Although, I suppose it might have been easier for you to simply allow the Vicomte to run me through with a rapier that day in the graveyard. Perhaps insisting that he leave me alive was a mistake…why are you crying, angel? It was not such a horrible mistake; you did try to correct it later."

She was leaning against his shoulder, sobbing gently. She made little noise if any; silent droplets of salty water seeped from beneath closed eyelids. _Damn. Damn. Damn! Is it my doing that he now thinks he should die? Of course it is…if he would be willing to kill himself simply for the sake of my peace of mind, then he would have committed suicide long ago if he then thought he was undeserving of life._

"Christine? Why are you crying?" _Does she feel guilty still? Or is she regretful that she allowed me to live? Dare I hope that she _does_ want me alive, and her return to ensure my safety wasn't a mere impulse? She was quite terrified at the suggestion that I take my own life for her sake._

"I shouldn't have tried to have you killed, that is why!" Christine shouted raggedly. "Never! I was wrong!" She could feel the smooth fabric of Erik's jacket absorbing the dampness of her tears. If she continued to cry this way, she might ruin his fine clothing, but she did not move.

"You think I _deserve _to live?" came the incredulous response. "Is death too kind a punishment, then?"

"No! All of the terrible things you have been through were punishment enough! And I…I don't even know the half of what has happened to you, do I?" Her eyes cracked open, the soft brown irises quivering like puddles of water on a rainy day.

Erik stroked her scalp, and she relaxed a little. "No, child. You don't." Despite the situation, he could not help but admire the silkiness of Christine's near-dry curls. _You selfish beast. You're supposed to be comforting her, not petting the poor thing's hair!_

She closed her eyes and rested briefly while Erik caressed her. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "Truly, I am." Her tears left shining tracks on her pale cheeks, even as Erik brushed them away with the cloth of his sleeve.

_All right, someone contact the Vatican; apparently the child wants me alive. _"I suppose there may be one upside to my still being alive. If I were dead, who would care for Ayesha? And my bats?"

"Bats?" Christine repeated, sitting up. _Erik keeps _bats?

"Yes…come, I will show you." Erik took Christine's wrist and helped her stand. He did not actually place his hand on her arm; he gently gathered the cloth of her dressing gown's sleeve in place of her flesh. She followed him obediently, half-wishing that he would slip his hand into hers the way he had the night he had first led her to his home.

He guided Christine to a set of vermilion curtains, brushed them aside, opened the door, and student and teacher stepped into the room. Their footsteps echoed; too many times, it seemed.

The space was darkened; there were not many candles. From what Christine could see, the room contained very little, save a few finger-thick iron bars suspended from the ceiling or protruding from the walls.

A sudden dark fluttering from the back of the room startled Christine, and she shrieked at the sight of flapping brown wings. "It's all right, Christine. It's only Shadow." Holding his right arm aloft, Erik used his left hand to light a candle whose holder was embedded in the wall. Christine could now observe a midsize bat hanging upside-down from Erik's raised arm. She shied away. "Erik…I've never been fond of bats."

"Shadow won't harm you. Even if she were a vampire bat, a bat's prey is usually smaller than the bat herself." The bat clambered rather ungracefully onto Erik's forearm and spread its wings, and Christine could see that the bat had only one eye and only one ear. A white bandage was wrapped around the left side of Shadow's skull. The disconcerting sight of a bat with only one enormous ear protruding from its tiny head made Christine flinch, even as Erik gently scratched the animal's crown.

"Where…where did you find her?"

"There tend to be at least a few bats in these caverns. When I found her, her ear had already been torn off and her eye had been damaged, presumably in a scuffle with another bat. I bandaged her to stop the bleeding and brought her here…she was the second one."

"Who was the first, then?" _This certainly is strange…Erik keeps wounded bats that he finds here? It's unexpected, but then I think I should begin expecting the unexpected around Erik._

"New Moon was, I believe. He'll likely be along soon, but he has two wounded wings and can't fly at all, poor fellow."

Another abrupt flapping sound, and Christine started once more as a second bat flew rather awkwardly in Erik's direction; it soon became apparent that one of this bat's wings that had been broken across the supporting bone, making the wing fold inward too much as it flew. It alit on Erik's arm beside Shadow; the candlelight flickered over its pale grey body, and Christine could make out the faint profile of a baby bat clinging fiercely to the larger animal's stomach. The baby turned toward Christine and cocked its head curiously, its large furless ears twitching.

"So…who are these two?" she whispered, oddly touched by the sight of a mother bat with its child. The obvious bond between the two small creatures gave them a sort of human quality.

"This is Cloak, and her pup Smoke. She nearly flew into a wall once to avoid me in a corridor. When I saw her lame wing and the fact that she had a child, I had to take her in."

A light pattering, almost dragging sound alerted all five of them (bats included) to the arrival of New Moon. He was prone on the floor, methodically hauling himself into the yellow pool of candlelight, his mangled, twisted wings unfurled to their full misshapen span to help him crawl. The coruscating light shone through the wounded animal's mutilated wings, illuminating their scars and snarls, and Christine cried out in sympathy for the poor creature. She crouched on the floor, offering an outstretched hand to the bat, which sniffed her fingertips questioningly. Up close, she could see that New Moon's fur was long and loose and so jet-black it had a bluish tinge, and his dark liquid eyes glittered inquisitively from a face softened by fluff. There was a bizarre leaf-like, small, horseshoe-shaped structure at the front of New Moon's nose.

"I thought you weren't fond of bats, Christine," noted Erik slowly, stroking Cloak's bent wing.

"I…I suppose I'd never properly met any bats." As she spoke, New Moon inched closer to her, experimentally nipping at her fingers. Without much preamble, he crept into her outstretched palm, parting his jaws to emit a high-pitched squeak. Christine's lips curled into a smile, and she giggled.

"Well, I do believe you have a new friend." Erik remarked. Christine stood, carefully cupping New Moon in her hands. He turned in a circle, sniffing, occasionally nipping happily at her palms.

"How…what happened to his wings?" Christine queried.

"I don't know. Possibly he was born with slightly malformed wings, but if you look closely, it does appear that some heartless, barbaric individual twisted them purposely. Likely caught the poor fellow _because_ he was already damaged." The anger in his voice was barely restrained, reminding Christine of a caged tiger threatening to burst violently from confinement.

"It's good that you found him," she said in a very low, almost meek voice. "It's kind of you to help these bats."

Erik's head snapped around to face her, his expression one of utter surprise. _Did she just say it was _kind_ of me to care for my bats? I have been called many things in my life, but…kind? Well, I suppose Christine is searching for some redeeming quality in me…it's likely unsettling for her to think that she is staying with someone who is purely worthless._

"How is it _kind_, my child? These creatures were wounded, and needed help. It would be cruel to _not_ care for them."

"Most people wouldn't have helped them," Christine pointed out.

"Most people are afraid of bats, or think of them as disgusting or some other such nonsense. But as you can see…" He indicated New Moon bustling about comfortably in Christine's hands. "…those people are wrong."

Deciding it was time for a scenery change, New Moon scrambled onto Christine's wrist and squeaked again. Her fingers trembling a little, Christine began to gentle New Moon's left wing, swallowing a whimper as she felt the many breaks and twists in the malformed structure. New Moon held still for a few seconds before becoming bored and working his way to Christine's forearm to hang upside-down. He pressed his wings against his sides, but he did not fold them around himself.

"Can he not fold his wings?"

"No, angel. He can't."

"I think he's become bored…do you think I could hold one of the others?"

Erik chuckled softly. "New Moon is an inquisitive fellow, but he loses interest…if you wish to hold one of the others, you had best take Shadow. Cloak does not know you, and she may feel threatened if you try to take her when she is holding her child."

Erik held one palm beneath New Moon, who immediately released his hold on Christine's sleeve and dropped into Erik's hand. Christine reached over to place her palm beside Shadow, who sniffed cautiously at the proffered hand. Shadow required more investigation than New Moon had, but with some mild persuasion from Erik, the bandaged bat hopped into Christine's palm and tipped its head to one side, studying her.

Shadow had the same leaf-like structure on her nose as New Moon had, and the same long, glossy fur, but Shadow's coat was a dark brown nearly the same hue as Christine's hair. The young soprano carefully balanced Shadow in one hand and lightly scratched her head with the other, careful not to touch the bandage. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"What kind of bat is Shadow? Or…all of them, I suppose?"

"They are horseshoe bats. They are called so because of their horseshoe-shaped noseleaf; doubtless you have noticed? This may sound strange, but horseshoe bats use their nose to make high-pitched sounds, then receive the sound when it rebounds to help see if there are any obstacles nearby. This is called echolocation. They use the noseleaf to help channel the sounds, and to shield their sensitive ears from receiving the sounds in full force."

Christine shook her head. "Erik, do you know everything?"

Erik outright laughed, and Christine could not help but smile; it was only the second time she had truly heard that lovely noise. The sound was pitched and modulated so that Christine suddenly ached to hear his laugh again. "Not everything, angel, just many things. Aside from composing and designing, what is there for me to do here alone but read and research?"

"It sounds so lonely." Christine ran one fingertip down the back of Shadow's remaining, massive ear.

"I have had God knows how many years of experience in being lonely. I daresay you could call me an expert!"

"I'm sorry."

"Why do you apologize? It's not as if it's your fault."

"No, but…what else am I to say?" She held her hand up to Erik's arm, and Shadow hopped lightly (with some assistance from her wings) onto the sleeve of his jacket.

"You might say that you aren't surprised," Erik noted.

Christine said nothing. "But I am sorry…for you."

"Don't waste your sympathy, angel."

"Why not?"

Erik glanced at her. "You have more important things to which to turn your mind."

Cloak suddenly released her hold on Erik's arm and flapped into the darkness; Christine thought she saw her alight on one of the bars suspended from the ceiling. Shadow followed in a chocolate-colored swoop, and New Moon beat his ruined wings impatiently.

"If you'll wait a moment, Christine; this fellow may need a bit of help." Erik carried New Moon to one of the bars that jutted from the wall; the damaged bat scrambled onto the metal and wasted no time in maneuvering to an upside-down position.

"I'm glad I met the bats," Christine remarked as Erik returned to her side. "Thank you for introducing me to them."

"You are quite welcome. Now, come; we must get out the door without allowing Ayesha inside."

"All right."

Erik had closed the door directly after they had entered; now, he slid it open once more, allowing just enough room for him to slip out sideways. When Christine attempted the same thing, Erik had to inch the door open a bit more. _He's thinner than I am? I would call myself slim; if Erik is thinner than I, then he is truly sick. He claims he has been eating, if sporadically, but he never said how much._

"Erik?" Christine laid her fingertips on his elbow to gain his attention.

"Yes?" Guardedly, he moved his arm away from the warmth of her touch, looking down upon her with a wary expression.

"When I eat breakfast today, would you like to eat with me?" she queried, widening her eyes a bit, hoping to affect what Meg called her "kitten-eyes please look." She hadn't had a need for that particular tactic in a while; she couldn't help but wonder if it she could still manage it as a woman, rather than a gangly child.

Apparently, she couldn't; Erik turned away from her and said idly, "No thank you, Christine."

"But why not?" _I worry a bit that he may start finding me annoyingly inquisitive…_ "You do enjoy my company, right?"

"My child, rest assured that I enjoy no one's company _more_ than yours," Erik replied heavily. "You are perhaps the only human on this earth with whom I wish to spend time. But after all, I haven't been eating, as you pointed out; if I eat far more than I am used to, I could sicken or perhaps die."

"You really are quite ill, aren't you?" Christine whispered, taking his arm again, this time firmly and with both hands so he couldn't pull away.

"Yes, I suppose I am ill. If I were to begin eating again at a slow pace, I suppose I would recover…it isn't as if I'm about to collapse from starvation." His arm stiffened beneath the young woman's clinging hands, but this time he did not try to break the contact.

"Please do. You're far too thin, Erik. It frightens me." The quiet susurration had a startling effect on Erik; he wiped his eyes swiftly with the back of his hand, then wrapped his fingers tightly around Christine's right wrist. She started a bit, but did not protest or squirm. "Erik…?"

"I do not wish to frighten you, but I'm afraid it will take quite a while for me to return to a healthy weight…perhaps another three months." His words were thick with emotion, despite his attempts to sound composed.

"Would you try? Please? Swear to me." She gave him another "kitten-eyes please look," this one more sincere and laced with supplication.

"You will not see the results of this promise…but yes, I swear it."

Christine dipped her head. "Thank you."

"You are welcome…speaking of which, do you wish to eat now? Or are you still not hungry?" It was back to business again; the rasp and strain of sentiment were absent from his voice.

"I would like breakfast now, yes…could I have porridge again?"

Erik smiled gently at her. "Of course, but you may want to change into your normal clothes first."

"Oh…" Christine glanced down; she had completely forgotten that she still wore her lilac dressing gown. "Yes, I should." She released her tight hold on Erik's arm and paced slowly back to her room, the image of Shadow's warped, damaged wings fresh and vivid in her mind. _I wonder if he feels kinship with those bats…misunderstood, abandoned…I wonder if he ever wants someone to help him the way he cares for those bats. Oh…of course. It was me he wanted. But why me? All I can do is sing…why did he turn his attention to me? Why me? He never explained._

She discarded her dressing gown and hung it on a small, three-pronged metal hook nailed to her wall. Rummaging through her saddlebags once more, she drew out a clean chemise and dress. Once again abandoning her corset, she changed into fresh clothes; today's gown was a rich, dark sapphire with a sand-colored trim at the wrists and along the skirt's hem. She decided to leave her hair completely unfettered so as to not risk tangling her newly-brushed mane.

Erik was not visible from the threshold of her bedroom, so Christine ventured into the kitchen. He was there, already stirring cinnamon and other spices into her porridge.

"Erik?"

"Greetings, Christine…your porridge will be ready momentarily."

"So quickly?"

"You do take a while to dress…" He briefly cut his eyes at his guest. "…but I suppose I see why." _You look perfectly radiant, Christine. But then, you would look sublime dressed in a burlap sack._

Christine smoothed her gown self-consciously, and Erik realized she had misunderstood. "You look lovely," he clarified, attempting to sound entirely matter-of-fact.

"Oh…thank you."

"You do not have to thank me. I'm only stating a fact."

Christine pulled a chair a few inches away from the table and sat down. "But I'm not very beautiful."

Despite the fact that he was working over a hot stove, Erik turned his head sharply to face her. "Where, pray tell, did you ever come by that ludicrous notion?"

"I'm just not very beautiful. My nose turns up and my eyes are too big…the other ballet girls often teased me. They claimed I always looked frightened, and they would say things like 'Seen another ghost, little Chrissie? Oh, wait, you always look like that.'" Christine laughed half-heartedly. "Just childish teasing."

"I remember those little wenches teasing you. I took care to give them a few scares at the hands of the Opera Ghost as a lesson. Anyway, they were only jealous. You may be a singer, not a ballet rat, but you had more talent at dancing than they did."

Christine's cheeks flushed; the praise was too heady, especially from a man who had in the past only complimented her rarely during her singing lessons. "My eyes are far too large, though. And brown is such an ordinary color."

_Remarkable. She really has no idea how comely she is._ "I'll have you know, your 'large, ordinary' eyes happen to be perfectly stunning." _Blast! I had better not forget that I am still making Christine's porridge. This is the second time I have nearly burned her breakfast as the result of talking to her._ Erik removed the iron pot from the heated metal coils and stirred the porridge before spooning it into a bowl for Christine. "Here you are." He set the bowl and a spoon in front of her. "Would you like some water?"

"Yes, please."

"Very well." Erik retrieved a glass from the only regularly shaped cabinet in the kitchen and filled it from the spigot. "You should never have listened to those ignorant little tarts. You're beautiful, far more so than any of them could ever hope to be." _Is it wrong for me to speak to her like this if I'm only trying to reassure her? And how in the white world am I to get an answer to that question? "Christine, does it make you uncomfortable when I say you're the most fetching girl in the opera house?"_

"Thank you, but…why do you say that?"

"I say it because it is true. Doesn't your boy tell you often enough that you're beautiful?"

Christine intertwined her fingers. "No…no, not really."

"Really?" Erik paused, raising his eyebrows. "Well, that's not very romantic of him, is it?"

She did not reply; she avoided answering by taking a single bite of porridge. Erik placed the glass of water beside her bowl. She swallowed. "Thank you. Er…you have more bananas, right?"

Erik restrained an amused smile. "I do, in fact. I see you have taken a liking to them?"

"Yes…" she smiled lightly and twirled a strand of hair around her index finger. "I believe I have."

"One moment, angel." He turned to the cabinet with the heptagonal door to retrieve the cluster of bananas that Christine had seen the day before; upon removing the wicker basket from the wooden container, he broke one banana off of the bunch and carried it back to Christine.

"Thank you." She carefully made a slit in the peel with her fingernail and proceeded to pull the banana's skin away from the fruit. "This is actually rather fun," she admitted with a shy giggle.

"I'm glad you enjoy it." He would have reached to squeeze her shoulder gently, but touching her still felt like sacrilege. Oh, she didn't _mind_, she had assured him of that, but she most certainly didn't _relish_ it. And in the end, she was still an angel, and he was still…

"Erik?"

"What is it?"

"I thought you promised me you were going to start eating again." The intensity of her fixed stare was diluted by the fact that she was still clutching her banana in her right hand.

"I did not promise to begin with this meal," he countered. "Besides, I only made enough porridge for you."

"You could still have one of these." Christine hoisted her banana a bit to demonstrate before taking another bite.

"Touché, Christine." This time, he was only able to conceal his smile by turning away from her. Returning yet again to the heptagonal-faced cabinet, he plucked the smallest banana off its bunch, replaced the basket, and took a seat at the table across from Christine. He stripped the peel away from the fruit. "Satisfied?" he inquired before taking a small bite.

She chuckled again and nodded.

_Why is it that I love the sound of her laughter? My so-called wit and sarcasm often made Nadir and Garnier laugh…but with Christine, it is different, so different. Her laugh is, in a way, just as beautiful as any song she could ever sing. Because it was I who made her happy, at least for a few seconds._

Christine raised her banana almost playfully, as if it were a wineglass and she about to propose a toast. "Cheers?" She grinned.

This time, Erik made no attempt to hide his small—but noticeable—smile. "Cheers," he agreed, if with only a slight inflection in the word, and lifted his hand that held the banana as if to complete Christine's toast.

She sank her teeth into the soft, pale fruit, taking a genuinely Brobdingnagian-sized bite.

Erik sighed and shook his head. "You are such a _child_, Christine." And this caused her to laugh again, so hard that she was forced to clap her hand over her full mouth to keep from spitting out the half-chewed banana.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erik did actually finish eating his entire banana, partly because Christine was continually sending him withering glances. _She may be shy in personality, but she can be extremely persuasive when she puts her mind to it. Or perhaps she has some…effect on me._

Christine, predictably, finished eating after Erik. When she was done, Erik again threw away her banana peel and cleaned her dishes and utensils. "Erik, you really don't have to do that."

"Angel, haven't we been over this? You are a guest."

"Well…all right. If you insist." She bit her lower lip almost guiltily.

_So conscientious, even when she's done nothing wrong_. Erik crossed to stand behind his protégé's chair. "Christine?"

"Yes, Erik?" She leaned back, resting the back of her head against Erik's lean stomach. He was so thin, she could swear she could feel his heart beating inside the hollow cavity of his chest. She half-expected him to reach over to caress her cheek or shoulder; he did not, choosing instead to shrink away from her.

"I have something for you."

She twisted in her chair to look up at him. "What is it?"

"Just something I made for you. A gift."

Christine rose. "All right."

"Come…I do think you will like this." Erik beckoned to her gently. "There's no need to be…alarmed."

"I'm not alarmed." She linked her arm through his, looking into his eyes expectantly.

_I know Christine is naturally an affectionate soul, but does she know just how torturous this is for me?_ Erik escorted his beloved student down to the pipe organ. It felt quite strange and wonderful to walk with Christine at his side, rather than leading her, spellbound and slavish, to their destination.

Erik carefully extricated his arm from Christine's and sifted through his papers, lifting a small, black velvet jewelry box. "Ah, here it is…I have been meaning to give you this for at least three months. But, well, you can see why I never had the chance." He cracked the box's top open, and the hinges creaked softly. Christine watched as Erik lifted a necklace from the box and lowered it into her reverently cupped hands.

The necklace was exquisite. The pendant hung, not on any commonplace chain, but on what seemed to be a strong, slender braid of plaited black silk threads; the material felt almost like liquid against her palms. The clasp was a white-gray metallic color, and the metal had a certain radiant glint that made Christine sure that the small, delicate instrument was indeed made of real silver. But the most alluring piece of the necklace was by far the pendant. It was some sort of gemstone carved painstakingly into the flawless shape of a red rose. The glimmering flower was about the size of a small coin: large enough to be noticeable, but not so outsized as to seem gaudy and brummagem. If not for the crystalline texture and luster, Christine might have sworn the bloom was some living breed of miniature rose, for each petal was curled exactly as any real rose's petals would. The very edges of the glittering crimson petals seemed to be made of a different kind of stone, one that seemed clear at first glance, but further examination showed it to be pleochloric, shifting colors with the light. Now, Christine saw the palest shade of green and the faint tone of her skin reflected in the translucent surface.

She knew instantly that this was no ordinary necklace. The rose's surface did not have that hard, cold, impersonal shine that many gems had; the blood-red flower seemed to blush with a soft, mellow gloss.

Christine was speechless.

"I understand if you do not wish to accept it," Erik conceded, his voice dry and toneless.

"It's _beautiful_!" Christine exclaimed, the word tasting foolish and inadequate in her mouth. A skilled ballet dancer was beautiful. Snowflakes were beautiful. The exquisite craftsmanship and inexplicable tenderness of this piece of jewelry surely required a word with more meaning. _I must come up with a word that can replace "beautiful" whenever I wish to describe one of Erik's creations._

She lifted the necklace to fasten it around her neck, but her fingers only fumbled with the clasp. "Erik, will you help me?"

He replied slowly, "If you wish."

Christine turned her back to him, swinging her hair out of the way. Erik took the two halves of the delicate clasp in his adept fingers and fastened them together easily, taking care to hold his hands away from the exposed nape of Christine's neck. The collar of her gown dipped in a graceful curve, dropping enticingly to expose a few gentle rises of her spine. Her skin was creamy and clear, without any visible blemish, and its lightness seemed to gleam softly in the twilight darkness. The minute black rope settled easily into place, brushing against the smooth bareness of Christine's porcelain-colored flesh.

_I do believe I am a bit jealous of a piece of jewelry_, Erik thought rather grimly. _She asked me to help her fasten that necklace without any thought; she must think I have spectacular self-control to not "accidentally" let my hand brush against her neck._ He gently brushed her dark mane back into place, concealing the uncovered skin behind a soft, tumbling mass of curls.

"Thank you." Christine's words came out as faint, reverent whispers as she lifted the pendant, almost piously, to examine it further. Since she was looking downward at the impeccable rose, the lush cobalt color of her dress was reflected in the remarkable edges of the petals. "Erik, it's so…perfect. How on God's green earth did you _make_ something like this?"

_I thought the red rose was a fitting pendant; I was attempting to create a necklace that was just as resplendent as you are. I failed._ "Much meticulous work, Christine. But I worked mostly on inspiration."

"Was I your inspiration?" Christine ran her fingertips over the splendid pendant.

"What, or who, else possibly could serve as my inspiration?" Erik took a single step sideways so he was half-facing Christine, partly to alleviate the temptation to slip a companionable arm around her.

She shook her head slowly. "I don't understand how you made something so incredible with an ordinary chorus girl for your muse."

"You are far more than an ordinary chorus girl!" Erik found her shyness adorable, but this, this listening to his sacrosanct angel insult herself was almost more than he could stand. "You are a star with a voice that any pompous diva on this planet would cut off her ears to have." _You are an angel…at least to me, you are._

Christine shrugged her shoulders lightly. "I can sing. But sometimes I wonder if the only part of me that is worthwhile is my voice."

"Well, cease your 'wondering.' You are much more than just a spectacular voice." _I'm positive she doesn't want me to list all of her qualities. She would probably feel unsettled._

"What am I, then?" The question was almost absent-minded; she was scrutinizing the pendant again, and still caressing the exquisite petals.

"Ordinary chorus girls normally behave like whores; that makes you leagues above them, does it not? You would never cheapen yourself that way."

Christine shivered at the thought. "No!"

"Exactly. You are also far more kindhearted than those brazen ballet tarts, although I suppose your friend little Giry is as well, though not as much so as yourself."

The young singer dipped her head affirmatively. "Yes…that's why Meg was always my only friend."

"And despite the fact that you have all the vocal makings of a diva—and more—you are not nearly as conceited as that old cow Carlotta."

Christine burst into laughter; for some reason, she found it hilarious to hear Erik refer to Carlotta as an "old cow."

Erik folded his arms. "Well, are you convinced?"

She only smiled and said quietly, "Thank you." She was still examining her new necklace.

Erik noticed her close observation. "I hope that necklace does not become bete noire to you simply because I made it for you."

"Of course not!" Christine pressed a clutched, protective hand over the place on her upper chest where the pendant hung. "It's amazing."

"I am…glad you like it."

"When did you make this?"

"I had been working on it since before the first time I brought you here, but on that occasion it wasn't quite ready. I finished it the day before _Il Muto_'s opening night. I planned on tying it around one of your roses along with the usual ribbon and presenting it to you after the performance. But, well, you can see why I did not do that." Despite his attempt to sound casual, Christine had heard him speak enough to detect the faintest trace of pain in the last sentence.

"I…hadn't known you saw…me and Raoul…that night…until the _Don Juan_ performance," she remarked in a very small, contrite voice.

"Oh, I was there the whole time. I was already on the roof when you and the Vicomte arrived. If you had been alone, perhaps I might have confronted you and tried to comfort you…well, it's a good thing your boy was there, wasn't it?" Erik shrugged lightly, as if it had been nothing to watch his heart's desire accept the affections of another man.

"So, you saw us…" She bit her lip, unable to finish the sentence.

"I saw you kiss him? Yes, I did. I must admit, though, the two of you do make a…nice couple." It was becoming more and more apparent that Erik was struggling to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Christine swallowed, endeavoring to imagine what Erik must have felt as he watched his beloved student and her childhood sweetheart embrace. The closest she could come to envision such a thing was to picture Raoul kissing another woman. _But even that doesn't come close to what Erik must have felt. I have such a limited capacity for love compared to his feelings for me…I've never run across a man who loves a woman so deeply as Erik loves me._ "Why were you on the roof that night?"

Erik answered again with almost inhuman ease, but still, Christine could tell that his calm façade was wearing thin. "After the events of _Il Muto_, I needed to hide. I was fairly certain that no one would consider looking for a cave-dwelling, opera-haunting creature on the roof. Apparently you thought the same thing."

The pendant rested warmly inside Christine's protective fist. "If you hadn't seen me and Raoul that night, would you have still given me the necklace?"

"Naturally. I would have had no idea how horrified you were of me, and I would have continued to…contact you. I most definitely would have given you the necklace, and you most definitely would have disposed of it. Understandable, of course, but still a bit of a shame; I did spend countless hours perfecting that pendant." Without preamble, Erik swiped viciously at his left eye, as if brushing away a tear. "I apologize; I do not wish to talk about this now."

"I could never throw this away." Finally, Christine uncurled her fingers and let the necklace fall back into place. _I don't know if an ordinary "thank you" is sufficient thanks for this. This jewel is no ordinary trifle; I can tell how his feelings for me are embedded, almost, in the necklace itself. How does he _do_ that? _"Erik, will you sing with me?"

"Now?" He gave her a bewildered look. "You've already had your lesson today."

"I know. But I want to sing with you. Is that…all right?" _Doesn't he want to sing with me anymore? Or does he want to avoid that too, the same way he tries not to touch me?_

"If you wish," he replied deliberately. He took a seat on the organ bench, his cape fluttering gracefully behind him, lending that infamous air of mystery. "What is it that you want to sing?"

Christine strode to stand beside the bench. "I thought we might sing 'O Soave Fanciulla' from _La Bohéme_."

"But, Christine…" Erik protested slowly, "'O Soave Fanciulla' is a love song. Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I am sure. It's such a beautiful moment in the story. From there, things just seem to go wrong."

Erik sighed. "Yes, I do hate it when that happens…" He struck a chord on the organ. "We'll being with Rodolfo's entrance, then." With that, he launched into the first line of the duet: "_O soave fanciulla, o dolce viso, di mite circonfuso, alba lunar, in te, vivo ravviso, il sogno ch'io vorrei, sempre sognar_!"

Christine responded with equal vigor. "_Ah! Tu sol comandi, amor!_"

Misgivings suddenly nonexistent, the two singers completely forgot their slightly awkward circumstances as they were swept away by the music. They were no longer simply a student and her teacher, or an opera ghost and a chorus girl, or a creature of darkness and an angel. They were two inspired virtuosos performing a spirited rendition of a marvelous love song.

Christine was lost. Alone, her voice was outstanding. Alone, Erik's voice was stunning. But together…together they were matchless. Their voices rang out back and forth, ringing perfectly, as if calling to the outside world to listen to their strange, magnificent duet. The music wrapped Christine in silken ribbons, teasing her and entreating her to sing until she was completely merged into the song. She and Erik both seemed to exist only in lyric and melody, and they existed only to perform.

As their voices rang out together on the final line, the sole line in which they sang simultaneously, Christine found salty heat building behind her eyes at the knowledge that their music was over…at least for the time. When the last notes faded, Christine felt as if she shrank in size and soul; she was no longer a spectacular musician singing alongside another of the same spirit and caliber, but a shy, quiet, unremarkable young woman with too-large eyes and a turned-up nose.

Erik was still bent over the keyboards of the organ. The muscles of his back were taut and frozen, and his hands trembled over the ivory keys. His chin was pressed firmly to his collarbone; between that and the cold white mask concealing the right side of his face, Christine could not read his expression.

She placed a comforting hand on his quaking shoulder. Was he crying? "Erik, are you all right?"

He rose swiftly and without warning, brushing Christine's hand away. "Angel, I am…sorry…I apologize…" His voice quavered more than his hands did, but he was not crying, at least not yet. "If you will…excuse me for…for a few moments." He swept away from her, retreating behind a set of roseate drapes into a chamber where Christine had never set foot. _Christine and I just sang a _love song _together. She obviously enjoyed it, simply because she adores singing. So was it so wrong for me to enjoy it? Yes, yes it was, because I imagined she meant what she sang…God in heaven, why am I such a vile, selfish creature? Why didn't I at least try to convince her to sing something else?_

Christine was left standing, dumbstruck, beside the organ. _What is wrong? Have I done something to displease him? Perhaps he was still thinking of me and Raoul singing _our _duet, and those emotions overcame him. But this is not like Erik at all._

Curious and not knowing what to do next, she began to sift gently through the many papers littering Erik's work area. There were more than just musical compositions; there were architectural plans, cursorily scrawled summaries of ideas, even hand-drawn sketches. It took Christine only a few seconds to realize that these were not blueprints or anything of the like; rather, they were drawings of her.

She gingerly lifted the first drawing, gaping at it in awe. It was only a charcoal sketch without color, but her eyes were drawn to it like iron fillings to a magnet. The picture depicted her sitting in the small alcove beneath the window in the chapel, seeming to smile shyly at the artist. Her folded legs were pulled near to her chest in a relaxed, casual pose; her slender ankles were crossed, and so were her arms, draped easily over her knees.

_Is that me?_ Christine found herself wondering almost hysterically. She scrutinized the picture; yes, it was she: the same thin, gently arched eyebrows, the same slim nose that widened at the bottom, the same oval-shaped face. _Well, that's me, but the girl in this picture is…is so…beautiful._ The young woman in the sketch was limned with a delicate grace, every feature uncommonly elegant. Even the ankles and feet emerging from the hem of the nightgown were shaped with alluring daintiness. _Do I look like that? I can't possibly be that lovely…and I certainly don't have very pretty feet._

Christine set the sketch down and began carefully trawling through the other drawings. Every one that she saw was another illustration of her, penciled with exquisite comeliness. Some portrayed her in more everyday poses, such as sleeping or curled up in a chair reading, and some were of her dancing with the ballet corps or performing an aria on stage. _Erik certainly finds me beautiful, if the way he draws me is any indication._

Each picture was dated. Most of the earlier ones seemed to be near the top of the stack through which she was looking, which did not make much sense, but perhaps that was just the way Erik chose to organize things. She ran across a few of her as a young girl, perhaps seven or eight, or sometimes twelve or thirteen, even though they were dated rather recently. Meg was also featured in some of the pictures, though always alongside Christine. In most, though, she was alone. _It's strange that he never drew himself with me_, the soprano mused. But, as if on cue, she brushed aside a portrait of her daydreaming and sitting nonchalantly against a wall to uncover an illustration of her and Erik. His arms encircled her from behind, wrapped securely around her waist, and she leaned willingly into his embrace. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder, eyes closed, with a content smile lingering on her lips; Erik was gazing down at her with gentle wonder. Strangely touched at the subtle but definitely present tenderness of the picture, Christine ran her fingertips through the air just above the page, similar to the way Erik came close to (but avoided) touching her. She did not want to smudge the drawing. As her fingers nearly brushed the date in the lower right-hand corner, she couldn't help but read it; Erik had completed this particular work of art the day after he had lured Christine into his lair.

She set the illustration down with reverent caution and turned to the remaining pile, hoping to find another picture of herself and Erik.

She did not find any such thing. Instead, she found a shock.

The next few pictures showed her alone once more, but the one about four down in the pile caused a small gasp of surprise and confusion to escape her lips. The drawing featured her standing, again, in the embrace of a man, but this time…

"What…?" The whisper fell from her lips almost unconsciously.

She stood in the exact same position in which she had been in the picture of her and Erik, but in this sketch, it was Raoul who was holding her. _But why would he draw me with Raoul? I know Erik wants me to love him, and he hates Raoul…I don't understand…_ Christine paged through the rest of the drawings. Many of them were more of the mystifying depictions of her and Raoul; some pictured her weeping with Raoul comforting her, and some were of them holding hands or sitting in a half-embrace. The likenesses of her alone no longer illustrated her in a relaxed mood. Instead, she was displayed as anxious or frightened, sometimes even crying. She only appeared content if Raoul were there, and even that was not always the case.

Christine was confounded. Searching for an explanation, she checked the dates of the drawings of her in anxious moods or the ones of her and Raoul. She noticed a trend: all of the pictures that had perplexed her had been drawn after the performance of _Il Muto_.

She continued sifting through the stack of drawings. Apparently, Erik had never returned to the same mood of his earlier sketches of her, although he had appeared once, in the illustration at the bottom of the pile. That picture was dated only four days before; Erik was depicted on the left side of the page, extending one comforting hand to Christine, and in the other hand he carried a rose. Christine, however, was burying herself in Raoul's embrace, one arm flung out desperately in Erik's direction to ward him off. Raoul clutched Christine protectively, casting a horrified glance at Erik.

Stunned and strangely hurt, Christine scanned the picture more closely. The depiction of her was as fair and flawless as ever, despite the fact that she was on the verge of tears. Erik had not paid nearly as much careful attention to the illustration of himself, though; his outline was sketchier and less defined, almost of poor quality juxtaposed to the impeccable drawing of Christine. Only the masked side of his face was visible, and his painful thinness was manifest. It seemed as if he had purposefully hidden any attractiveness he might possess.

It was only after Christine had finished examining the drawing that she noticed that the date in the corner was drawn rather shakily, and directly above the numbers was a small rough, crinkled patch shaped rather like a circle. It was if that spot had been damp at one time… _That was a teardrop. He was crying when he finished this drawing. This makes no sense! I would think he would draw himself and me together _more _after the day he hear Raoul and myself on the roof, because he was jealous of Raoul and wanted me at his side even more. Unless this is what he truly thinks of himself…that I will be terrified of him no matter what he does…even in this picture, he looks as if he was going to comfort me, and I panicked. But then why did he approach me in _Don Juan_? I'll never puzzle this out on my own…I'll have to ask him and hope he's willing to answer._

Christine carefully stacked the drawings again and turned to the sheets of music. _It looks as if he's written all of these himself. And none of them have titles, though at first glance they all seem very different. I wonder if he's writing another opera, or perhaps these are pieces that didn't make it into _Don Juan.

A loud, piercing meow, one that only a Siamese could utter, sounded from by her feet, making her jump slightly. "Ayesha?"

The slender feline nudged Christine's calf, not in affection, but almost as a warning.

"Ayesha, I think Erik would like you to go to him," she remarked, curious as to why the little cat was not indeed trying to comfort Erik. He was obviously a bit upset, and Ayesha was so devoted to him…

The Siamese gave Christine the most horribly dirty look that one could ever see on a feline face, as if she did not approve of the impudent human's condescending words. But she switched her tail and sauntered off.

_I wonder what that was about,_ Christine mused. _I'm sure Ayesha thinks I'm intruding…she's likely not used to strangers… _She gently lifted one of the sheets of music, automatically sight-reading. There were no markings on the page indicating dynamics, tempo, or articulation, yet Christine somehow knew that the swirling, menacing, slightly discordant harmonies of this piece began with a quiet, anxious tone and crescendoed ominously. A shiver ran down her spine; she was no longer sight-reading the music, but hearing it, and somehow _feeling_ it as well. There was coldness, and dampness in the air, and a horrifying, overwhelming sense that she did not know what was happening but something terrible was _about_ to happen…

"Christine!"  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I know it's a bit of a weird ending for a chapter, but it was the best dividing point in the forty-two-page original chapter that I could find. Yeah, I know, forty-two pages in one chapter…this is why I'm usually a novelist…NEway, the next chapter will be up tomorrow. It's done, but I need to proofread it.

Thanks to Dictionary dot com for reassuring me that "candelabrum" is singular and "candelabra" is plural. There really aren't any synonyms for "candelabrum," though, are there?

Christine has unruly hair in this story, I know. The ideas I got for Christine's hair (wow, that doesn't sound weird at all) are compiled from the manes of two of my friends. One of these friends says she likes it when people play with her hair, so she asked me to braid it for her, and she fell asleep (or maybe nearly fell asleep, I'm not sure) while I was doing so. Another one of my friends has really thick hair that got very tangled after some of us went swimming, and another friend and I had to help her tame it.

For a picture of a horseshoe bat that shows the weird noseleaf structure, use this URL: http/animaldiversity.ummz. admit that this phic is supposed to take place in 1827 and the world premiere of _La Bohéme_ was in 1896. But this is a fanfiction; minor reality-bending is allowed. Besides, I couldn't find any other duets that suited the situation and/or Erik's and Christine's vocal ranges. I searched for a good five hours for a suitable duet and decided that 'O Soave Fanciulla' was my best bet; by the time I found out the opera hadn't been written in time for the phic to happen, I just DIDN'T CARE.


	5. Day Two Part Two

Three Days

Day Two: Probity  
Part Two

Summary: Slightly AU; what if Christine ran back to Erik as the mob approached, just to make sure he survived? And what if she stayed in Erik's kingdom of darkness for three days before returning to Raoul? ALW-based, with Kay influence because I FINALLY READ _PHANTOM_! w00t!

Disclaimer: If I owned _Phantom of the Opera_ and its many versions, Erik and Christine would have ended up together. So needless to say, I don't own any of them. (And if Kay's ending can be construed as Erik and Christine ending up together, I still don't own it.)

Pairings: Erik/Christine (doy)

Author's Notes: Nadir, the Persian, will make a cameo in this chapter. The scene with him in it is based very heavily off the time in Kay's _Phantom_ when Nadir found Erik on one side of the lake and began shouting, "'Christine Daaé? Christine Daaé, Erik?' without civilized preamble." I love Nadir to bits, so I had to put him in this story.

Warning: this chappie gets very angsty at the end. But you can't have phanfiction without angst, no? It just makes the happy ending all the happier!  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christine started so violently that the paper dropped from her hands and she whirled to face Erik, her hands cleaving tightly at the edge of the organ to prevent from tipping over.

Erik had taken several steps since emerging from the curtains; how did he move so silently, making slightly less noise than a wildcat stalking its prey?

"What are you doing?"

The warmth and gentleness that she had become so accustomed to were gone from his voice, replaced by the wicked, impersonal coldness of steel or iron. No, it wasn't coldness, it was heat, searing, furious, incinerating heat that was barely restrained and might burst into explosive flare at any moment.

Christine's rational mind was insisting over and over, like a crazed mantra, _He won't hurt me. He won't hurt me._ But his eyes…oh, God, his eyes…their glowing, mellow gold had become a smoldering yellow-orange, the color of fettered rage.

Any logic in Christine's mind shattered, replaced by unadulterated emotion. _Oh, God, Erik is going to kill me!_

Like a terrified rabbit fleeing a wolf, Christine bolted.

She had nowhere to run. She could not make for the catacombs; they were littered with traps, and Erik had designed them. Her quarters had a lock on the bathroom door, but Erik was blocking that path. She turned to the only place she could think of: the library.

Christine burst through the curtains, her eyes raking the room for a place to hide. The room's walls were lined with bookshelves; there were no alcoves in which to cower. But wait—in the far corner, two of the shelves did not meet, leaving a small empty corner. Could she fit there? It didn't matter; he would find her anyway. But she could not simply stand and wait.

Heart racing like the snare drums of a battle squadron, Christine dashed for the corner. She squeezed her thin body into the space, barely able to fit, and crouched down close to the floor, making herself as small as possible.

She had barely crushed herself into the alcove when Erik swept into the library. His eyes found her hiding place without any hesitation, and he approached her slowly.

_There's nothing I can do, _Christine thought madly. _He knows it. He's taking his time approaching me; there's nowhere I can run now._ She turned her face to the wall, pressing her forehead to the hard stone.

Erik paused behind her. She could feel his presence towering over her cringing form. Hands shaking uncontrollably, she wrapped her arms protectively around the back of her head and braced herself for pain. "Don't hurt me," she pleaded, her voice trembling so severely that even she could not understand the words.

When she felt his hand against her back, she flinched, but there was nowhere for her recoiling body to go. She need not have moved; the touch was not the blow she had expected, but a slow, comforting caress to her spine. _Is he…toying with me? Or was he not angry? No, he must have been angry, I saw his eyes…_

"I had no intention of hurting you." His voice was calm again, a bit surprised, perhaps even hurt.

Christine's fear evanesced, and she suddenly felt utterly stupid. Had she really thought he was going to kill her just for looking through his music?

"You may come out of there now."

Cheeks aflame, Christine crawled out of the corner. "I…I'm sorry. I thought you were angry with me."

"Apparently. You took off running as if your heels had caught fire."

Christine hung her head. "You looked furious. I thought you were angry with me for looking through your music and drawings."

"Did I ever instruct you not to look through those things?" Erik smiled.

"No," Christine admitted. _I feel rather like a very small child being disciplined._ "But then why did you look as if I'd done something terribly wrong?"

Erik closed his eyes briefly. "That was no ordinary music at which that you were looking. Much of the music that I keep there is written directly from my memories. Someone listening to that music—or even sight-reading it, as I know you can do perfectly well—they do not merely hear notes. They experience what I felt during the memory. So you see why I did not want you to look at the music."

She glanced up at his face. "But how did you know I was looking at the music, and not, say, one of your drawings?"

"You have a very expressive face, Christine, and I know how to decipher your emotions from looking at you. I could tell from your expression. You looked incredibly…anxious, and fearful."

"I was. What was I 'experiencing' that was made me feel that way? It was as if I thought something horrid was about to happen, yet I didn't know what it was, or even _where_ I was."

"If I'm not mistaken, you were looking at a piece I wrote remembering how I felt when I first woke in my cage."

"_Cage_?" Christine screamed.

"Yes, Christine. Do you not remember two nights ago, in the tunnels, when you incessantly asked about the scars on my back and I finally told you? I did mention that I lived primarily in a cage, correct?"

"Yes, but I suppose it didn't register…so much was going on that night, it was…a lot for me to absorb." _Listen to me prattling. I sound like a complete simpleton._ "You were—eight years old, I believe you said?"

"Yes. You can see why I appeared furious; the idea of an eight-year-old you locked in a cage the way I was simply made my blood boil. I was not angry at _you_, Christine."

She nodded. "I see that now. I'm sorry I ran."

"There is no need to apologize. I am used to people running from me, and besides, you were already frightened from sight-reading the music."

"Yes, that…must have been it, or part of it," Christine sighed hastily, glad for the excuse.

"You did not look at any other pieces of my music, did you?"

"No." She shook her head. "I saw the drawings, though…" Her head suddenly snapped upward. "There was only one picture of the both of us. But after…after the performance of _Il Muto_, you drew me and Raoul."

"And you wish to know why?" Erik ran a hand through his hair. _This may be difficult to explain_.

"Yes. Please. I was curious. I never expected to see a picture that you drew depicting Raoul holding me. I would have thought…"

"…that I would draw myself holding you?" The words tasted ugly in Erik's mouth. It still felt disrespectful, even profane, to mention such a thing, even in a drawing. But at least he had managed to say it.

"Yes."

"In all honesty, Christine, I did try."

"You tried to draw us together?"

"Yes. But I simply could not…draw both of us. If I drew you first—which I did often—then my hand simply drew the boy holding you. I attempted to draw myself first, but then when I drew you, you either looked frozen with terror, or were struggling mightily."

Christine leaned forward enough to slip her arms around Erik's neck and press her cheek to his collarbone. "Does it seem like I am 'struggling mightily?'"

"Er…I suppose not," said Erik stiffly. _Why on Earth does she keep hugging me?_

"So, why? Why couldn't you draw me looking…content? Or yourself holding me instead of Raoul?"

Erik would have shrugged, except he couldn't with Christine's arms around his neck. "I suppose it was a warning that I should give up on my feelings for you."

Christine did not know what to say.

"Or perhaps it was a sign that you and that boy are soul mates, and I should have accepted it."

Christine was about to glance up sharply, but then she realized that her head would slam directly into the underside of Erik's chin if she did so. "You believe in soul mates?" _If anyone on this earth were jaded and disillusioned against such romantic ideas, it would be Erik._

"If you mean to ask if I believe in some romantic nonsense such as every man and every woman has one person with whom they simply belong, then the answer is most definitely 'no.'"

"Then what is your definition for 'soul mate?'" _I've never heard a definition besides the one Erik just denounced_.

"I suppose you could say that I believe certain individuals will find one person with whom they will be…comfortable as long as that particular person is in their life. None of that two-halves-of-one-whole rubbish; one and one make two, as far as I'm aware."

Christine couldn't help but snicker a little, but she sobered quickly. "So you thought—think—I was one of those who would find a soul mate?"

Erik hesitated slightly before answering; this conversation was becoming extremely personal, and Christine could tell that Erik wasn't very happy with it. "Yes. Ever since I first saw you, just a seven-year-old girl lighting a candle for her dead father and fighting back tears. As you grew, so did my suspicion that you would be one of those who would eventually find comfort in a soul mate."

_Interesting that he mentions me lighting a candle for my father._ "Did you think I needed a soul mate because my…I had…lost my father?" The words came to her lips with difficulty, as if she had to dredge them from a chasm in her mind before speaking them, and a familiar lump rose in her throat. Ever intuitive to her feelings, Erik passed a hand over her scalp, hoping to calm her.

"Not exactly. Not to replace your father, in any case. But—correct me if I am mistaken—you have never quite come to grips with your father's death. You never had the chance."

"You're saying that I should forget my father?" Christine demanded angrily.

"Not forget, angel, never. But you rarely cried for him; you struggled not to. And especially, no one ever spoke with you about your father's death, or asked if you were all right."

"Madame Giry…"

"…tried." Erik cut her off. "You put on a brave smile and said you were fine."

"You thought I needed a soul mate to understand about my father. And because I was lonely."

"Yes. You have a lonely soul."

Things were beginning to make more sense. "You've been lonely as well. You thought you could help…heal me. My loneliness. That's what you wouldn't tell me at breakfast yesterday."

_She is more perceptive than I thought. _"It's amazing how spectacularly wrong I can be, isn't it?"

Christine tucked her head under his chin. "Am I your soul mate, Erik?"

"Unfortunately for you, angel, you are."

"So, you are my soul mate?"

"Heavens, no! Wherever did you get such an absurd idea?"

_Now I am confused._ "But…if I am your soul mate…"

"That does not necessarily mean that I am yours."

It was only then that Christine truly noticed that despite the fact that her fingers were still intertwined behind Erik's neck, he hadn't yet found the courage to return the embrace.

"I would think that…soul mates work both ways."

"Well, that is the idea, but one would suspect that, like everything else, the concept of soul mates does have…aberrations."

_Is that how he thinks of himself? An "aberration?"_

Erik continued, "I wouldn't have expected your soul mate would be a coddled young nobleman with little or no appreciation for music, but, well, I have made many grave miscalculations lately."

"Are you ever going to put your arms around me?"

"You are engaged. What right do I have to embrace you?"

"It's only an embrace, Erik. Friends embrace. Besides, you were holding me when we were in the tunnels, hiding," remarked Christine.

"That was only to comfort you. You were terrified, and no one else was there."

"What if I said I wanted you to hold me?"

Erik retorted swiftly, "I would say that you were telling a complete and outright lie." But despite his rapid reply, he could not help wondering if Christine truly _did_ wish for him to return her caress.

"Last time you held me, it was because I was frightened. I was frightened a few minutes ago."

"Yes. The monster frightened you." Erik extricated himself from the warm circle of Christine's arms.

Remembering her threat to keep Erik from calling himself a monster, Christine swung at him with an open, slap-ready palm. He caught her wrist easily, lowering her arm back to her side even as she struggled. "I appreciate your dedication, but after all these years I have finally accepted that I am a monster."

"No! You're not!" _If he keeps going on about him being a monster, I will either scream at him or cry. Am I really so immature and sensitive?_

"I wish that were true. You see, Christine, all my life I knew there was something horribly wrong with me. But I never lost the hope—however faint it might me—that I might not be a complete monster. If I had known the truth, I never would have contacted you in person. I thought that if anyone could discover my lone redeeming quality, it would be you."

"Why me?" Christine cried.

"You are one of the most kindhearted people I know, for one thing." Erik spoke the words just as easily as he might have said, "The sun is hot."

"'Kindhearted?'" she echoed. "How can you call me that after I betrayed you?"

"One incident does not change your true nature, angel. Yet despite this, you still found me to be some…subhuman creature."

"What if I was wrong?" Christine challenged.

Erik raised his eyebrows. "You looked into my soul and found only distortion—you said it yourself. You confirmed what I had been afraid of. I fail to see how you could have been wrong."

"I think…I judged you too quickly."

"Oh? Do explain." He spoke with caustic irony, but meant the query sincerely.

"If you are so evil, why did you save me two nights ago?" she demanded. "More than once!"

"What was I to do, watch that vicious mob tear you to pieces?"

"A monster would have left me to die."

Erik exhaled slowly. "Keep in mind that his particular monster cares very much about what happens to you."

"All right, then, let's say my friend Meg had run ahead of the mob and had gotten lost in the tunnels. If you had run across her, would you have helped her out of the catacombs?"

"I wasn't aware you were practicing to become a police interrogator, Christine." Erik smiled.

"Just answer me. Please." Christine was on the verge of shouting; Erik was being so annoyingly flippant.

"I would have helped her, of course. I have nothing against Marguerite."

"If you are such a monster, why wouldn't you just leave her?"

Erik replied with a question of his own. "If I'm not a monster, how did I manage to terrify and alienate the only person I love simply by loving her?"

Christine was momentarily thrown by the question. "Erik, I…"

A pronounced, very put-off meow from the doorway interrupted her.

Erik laughed, and Christine was struck with a sudden wash of jealousy that it was that cat and not her who had made him laugh. "Envious of the time I spend with Christine and not you, my darling?"

Ayesha trotted primly to Erik and leapt into his arms, purring like a freight train and licking the unmasked side of his face. Erik scratched Ayesha's ears and back, still laughing.

Christine bristled.

Erik glanced at a mantel clock that was perched atop a bookcase. "Is it that late already? I must have left you alone for longer than I thought, Christine…" He stood, still cradling Ayesha.

"Erik, wait." Christine did not get up. "When I ran from you…it was not you I was frightened of. I was already unsettled from reading the music, and I didn't understand why I shouldn't look at it…"

Erik held up a hand to still her, then knelt before her once more; he placed Ayesha on the floor, and she yowled impatiently. "It's perfectly all right, angel. You already apologized, and besides…"

She cut him off. "But I shouldn't have panicked. I should have known better."

"Christine, it is not your fault. You know of my temper; panicking was a logical reaction. I should not have been angry."

"Erik…"

Guilt was not an emotion that was at all familiar to Erik. But hearing his Christine _apologize_ for being frightened of him, even though it was manifest that he had simply terrified her and it was no fault of hers…the newfound sickening lurch of guilt was overwhelming, coming over him in ravenous waves as the image of Christine's horrified face swam in his mind. "It's not as if I hadn't frightened you already…angel, I'm sorry…"

Christine was kneeling on the floor, with her skirt pooled around her. Erik gingerly lifted the sapphire-colored material and kissed the hem. She was half touched, half horrified; there was no intimacy in the gesture, only subservience and supplication. And for some reason, she deplored the sight of Erik humbling himself before her like a slave before a princess.

"Erik, please, don't!"

"What…? Oh. I apologize. If you wish to change into a different dress now…" _Why else would she object with such fervor?_

"That's not it at all!" _Does he really believe I think so little of him?_ "Erik, I idolized you for thirteen years as my Angel of Music. You understand why it troubles me to see you…kissing the hem of my skirt."

"Your Angel of Music." Erik smiled wryly. "It seemed such a good idea at the time…I couldn't allow a voice such as yours to go untrained, and I thought, must your Angel of Music be sent directly from heaven? Could an ordinary man play the part? And what was I to say: 'Good evening, little Christine. I am the dreaded Phantom of the Opera, and I have come to give your voice wings?'"

Christine laughed, and hated herself for it. "You never cured my 'lonely soul,' did you?"

His smile became gentle. "No, I did not. I wished to save that for a time that was opportune…and meaningful."

Christine nodded slowly. "Erik, would you still…love me…if you had consoled me about my father's death, and I no longer felt so lonely?"

His answer came without the slightest hesitation. "Of course." Suddenly Erik's expression changed. "If I just robbed you of a way to make me forget about you and leave you alone, I apologize. But rest assured, once you leave, you will never hear of me again."

Christine's heart sank at these last few words; somehow, this was not what she had wanted to hear. "Why? You aren't leaving Paris, are you?"

"I thought it would be better for you if I were to leave. Imagine if I ran into you on the street!"

_If someone had mentioned that a few days ago, I would have been horrified. But now…hearing him say it saddens me._ "Where will you go?" she questioned.

"I have traveled many places, but I have never seen the New World. I thought I might go to the United States."

"The New World!" cried Christine. "But that's so far away!"

_Is she…protesting? Or is she glad? _"Is it not far enough for you?"

"No! I mean…why can't you stay in Paris? Your whole life is here now, right?"

"Well, yes. However, the opera house will be closed for quite a while to make repairs, and besides, you were the main reason I stayed here for so long. But now that it's best for you if I leave…"

"I don't want…I mean…I wouldn't…" Christine struggled to find the right words. "I would like you to stay. Especially if it is easier for you."

"A move over such a distance would be difficult for me, but why does that matter?"

"'Why does it matter?'" she repeated. "You're the one who has to move your entire life to America, that's why!"

"But, Christine, if we were to both remain in Paris, then it is entirely possible that we might accidentally see each other. Can you even think of a more awkward situation? And do you think your young boulevardier will be particularly happy to see you reunited with the man who was your worst nightmare?"

"No," Christine admitted. "But Raoul doesn't know you the way I do."

"Exactly. He would sooner shoot me than look at me. You would have done the same not two days ago."

The singer hung her head, abashed.

"There is no reason to be ashamed, angel."

"Meeoww!" Ayesha was through waiting. She leapt into Erik's lap, standing on only her hind legs to place her forepaws on his chest. "Meow!" she repeated insistently.

"What does she want?" Christine queried.

"It is time for her to eat. Do you wish to remain in this library? You seemed to enjoy reading here yesterday."

"Yes! I've had neither the time nor the resources to read much since I came to the opera house. I was so bookish when I was young!"

"You say that as if you are embarrassed," Erik remarked, picking up Ayesha. "No reason to be embarrassed of literacy, or love of books. I'd not be surprised if some of those ballet tarts who used to taunt you have forgotten how to read."

A peal of laughter tore loose from Christine's throat.

"Enjoy your reading, Christine. Shall I fetch you at dinnertime?"

"Please. And Erik?"

He turned to face her as he headed out through the curtains. "Yes, angel?"

"Could you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"I want you to draw us together, singing, like we did today. Maybe with you playing the organ. Do you think you could do that? It wouldn't turn out as Raoul and me? After all, he certainly can't play the organ."

Erik nodded. "I will try. But why? You don't intend to keep it, do you?"

"Of course I'll keep it!"

"Christine, a necklace is one thing, but a drawing? Surely something so visual will remind of me." _Unless that is what she wants…no, impossible. If only that _were_ the truth!_ "Will I draw this only to have it ripped up by your lover?" _Or you?_

"I won't let Raoul see it," Christine vowed.

"Very well." With a farewell nod, he disappeared through the curtains. Ayesha was leaning over his shoulder, and Christine was sure the incredibly smug look on her feline face could only mean one thing: _I warned you, stupid human!  
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_The rest of the day passed uneventfully, at least for Christine. She lounged in the library and near-devoured books to her heart's content; she had always had such a weakness for well-told stories. Her stomach was beginning to growl quite loudly by the time Erik came into the library and asked Christine if she were hungry.

She managed to convince Erik to actually eat something, and also to tell her another story. This one detailed the life of a young noblewoman, the third girl in her family, who was thrown out of her house for telling her father that she loved him "as fresh meat loves salt." The girl took on a new identity, "Caporushes," derived from the clothes that she made for herself out of rushes and grasses. Through her own cleverness and intrigue, Caporushes became a cook's assistant in the royal palace, and eventually she and the prince fell in love. At their wedding celebration, Caporushes ordered that the feast be dressed without one mite of salt, remembering the remark that had gotten her disowned. Caporushes's father, a nobleman, attended the feast, but he had gone blind weeping for his lost daughter and his foolish error. Caporushes confronted him at the feast and revealed her true identity, and when her father tasted the saltless meat, he believed her and wept fresh tears of joy that healed his eyes.

"It's refreshing to know that it was Caporushes's cleverness that helped her," Christine noted when Erik had finished the tale. "In so many fairy tales, the girl who becomes the princess does so by luck and chance, not by her own devices."

A ghost of a smile passed Erik's lips. "I am glad that you enjoyed the story."

Christine leaned back in her chair. "I have never had the imagination to create my own stories. But I love hearing yours. You're a master storyteller, Erik!"

_She enjoys it when I tell her stories…that is a good sign… _Erik nodded. "Thank you, Christine. I suppose I was given so many talents to…counterbalance my inhumanity. God's little experiment with me failed, of course, but at least I can tell you stories."

"'God's little experiment?'" Christine reiterated, looking a bit poorly.

"I seem like an experiment toying with humanity, don't you think so? A quasi-human creature horrendously twisted inside and out, yet miraculously, disturbingly talented."

"You must not talk of yourself like that!" Christine shouted, anguished. "How many times must I beg this of you? I always feel so…so sorry for you when you speak that way!"

A heavy sigh escaped his throat. "If it makes you feel sorry for me, then I will make my best attempt to not call myself a monster or any such thing when you are near." _God forbid I should inadvertently take advantage of her compassion._

Christine dropped her head. "Thank you."

"Any wish you make, Christine, I will make my best attempt to grant."

She glanced at his plate. "You didn't eat much."

"If I eat too much at this stage, I will make myself sick. I have eaten so little lately, I can't eat very large quantities now. It will cause too much strain on my body; I might die, which would be incredibly inconvenient for you, as it would be difficult for you to find your way to the surface world on your own."

"And you promised me you would share your compositions with the rest of the world. You can't do that if you're dead," she reminded him.

Erik smiled as he rose to clear the table. "It seems you've exacted quite a few promises from me, haven't you?"

"You seem as if you'd keep any promise I'd ask you to make."

"Of course." _Why would I do otherwise?_

A wicked, playful grin crossed Christine's face. "If I wanted you to hop on one foot for an entire day, would you promise me you'd do it?"

He rolled his eyes and smirked. "Now you are being ridiculous."  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------While Christine explored Erik's home (except, of course, for his private rooms) during the remainder of the day, Erik composed. When an incredibly curious Christine asked him what he was working on (what song could possibly require so many hours of labor?), he replied evasively and refused to let her see it. "I never reveal an unfinished work" was his excuse. He also refused to eat supper, though Christine pled with him. But once she was finished eating, she sat on the organ bench with him for company, and he did not complain, except to warn her not to look at his composition. His exact words were: "I doubt you will like what you see if you look."

"Why?" Christine queried boldly. She was beginning to think that Erik had a better hold on his temper around her; after all, hadn't he calmed himself earlier that day, because he had known she was frightened?

"Because I am writing this song for you, but it is not something you would wish to hear." Erik finally gave her a relatively clear answer, apparently worn down by her incessant prodding.

Christine found Erik's caverns quite lonely, if magnificent. For one thing, one's voice echoed very easily upon speaking, making it seem eerily like the echo was the only available companion. Both Christine's sensation of loneliness and the knowledge that Erik had to live with that sensation drove her to sit with him, just so neither of them would feel lonesome. But the hour quickly grew late, and Christine found herself nodding off against Erik's shoulder. Having Christine that close made Erik exceedingly uncomfortable, and he suggested that she sleep.

The suggestion seemed plausible to an exhausted Christine. After he gently proposed that she get some rest, she nodded wordlessly and stumbled back to her room. She discarded her lovely dress, changed into a comfortable dressing gown, and crawled into bed, pulling the deliciously silky sheets into a cocoon around her body. Yet despite her deep, contented exhaustion and her relaxed situation, she found herself unable to sleep.

Her hand unconsciously wandered to the marvelous, intricate rose pendant that still hung from her neck, and suddenly she knew what was missing.

She rose from her bed and parted the silver curtains that led to her room; from there, she noted that Erik now stood beside the organ, the long, graceful fingers of his left hand wrapped around something. Christine could see that the thing he was holding had a very long green stem, and as she approached, she quickly identified it as a fresh rose, complete with the black ribbon. She watched, both mystified and touched, as Erik lovingly caressed the lush crimson petals and trailed the bloom across his unmasked cheek. Before sitting down once more, he placed the new rose beside the first one in the clear glass vase that Christine had noticed earlier that day.

_I understand…he is keeping one rose for each day I am here._

She slowly, foggily made her way to where Erik bent over his work, where she knelt on the bench and slipped her arms around his neck in a goodnight embrace. He tensed within her arms, as if he were frightened of her. "Good night, Erik," she said sleepily.

It was only when she released him that he returned the whisper. "Good night, Christine."

That night, Christine lay awake for a while longer, brooding, thinking about her bizarre relationship with Erik. For so many years, he had acted as her Angel of Music, a strict yet gentle tutor who she had been sure was heaven-sent. Especially on those days when the other ballet girls had been teasing her and she would arrive at her voice lesson in tears, her Angel would comfort her with such an unspeakably tender voice that could not have originated on Earth.

Everything had changed, though, the night after her starring role in _Hannibal_, the night Erik had invited her into his home. To find out that the teacher she had so respected and idolized and longed to know was not an angel, but a man…it had shocked her, yet opened so many doors. His romantic feelings for her were manifest, and despite the strangeness of their situation and Erik's disfigured face…

Fatigue was setting in, and Christine's thoughts were beginning to stray. It was difficult to cling to one train of thought; she now found herself thinking of more recent times, of why Erik was rejecting any sign of affection or even comfort from her. It wasn't entirely surprising, she supposed; when he had embraced her at the end of _Point of No Return_, her next act had been to yank his mask off. It stood to reason he should be suspicious of any sort of positive gesture, but Christine was still troubled. Had she damaged his heart so completely that he wasn't able to accept a simple goodnight hug? She was still waiting for a time when Erik would return one of her embraces, and not shy away from her. Or perhaps he was _trying_ to hurt her feelings, to show her how deeply she had scarred him…but no, he wouldn't do something like that, he wouldn't want to cause her any pain, she knew that now…

The memory of Erik's discomfort when she embraced him that night caused another notion to flit into her mind: his horrible thinness. She supposed that was another reason she refused to take a hint and be entirely unaffectionate: seeing how emaciated he was made her cringe, and she was half-expecting to see him collapse from starvation at any moment. But Christine felt that somehow her embrace might infect Erik with her health and keep him alive a little longer. And if he were going to survive, he needed to be more vigilant with his promise to start eating again. He had only eaten twice that day, and very little each time.

_Why am I so worried about Erik?_ Christine wondered as her eyes drooped shut. _Is it only sympathy that I feel? Or is it more?_

She never answered her own question. Her exhaustion became overwhelming, and she submitted, floating effortlessly into a dark, blissful subconsciousness.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Erik's body still seared where Christine had touched him. Had she been sleepwalking? Surely she wouldn't ordinarily say goodnight in the manner she had chosen, especially considering that she could have done so before attempting to sleep.

_Is she warming up to me, or am I influencing her into being kind to me against her will?_ Erik thought darkly. _Does my voice still hold power over her? Asking me to comb her hair, accepting the necklace I made for her, requesting that I sing with her, apologizing for being frightened of me…saying goodnight with an embrace…I dare not hope that she means any of it. Is it possible that Christine not only wants me alive, but actually enjoys my company now? No, feelings can't change that quickly…it's this place, and my presence, that are doing this to her. But I have no intention of warping Christine's thoughts or feelings! If I am influencing her with my voice, I am certainly not doing it consciously!_

He abandoned his composition and stormed to where his black cloak hung on a hook, then fastened it around his neck. He never left his home without it. Checking his various traps along the way, Erik ascended to the world of functional humans, drinking in the delicate coolness of the moonlit night. Perhaps a walk might clear his mind…

But Paris was a bustling, lively city, and it was never quiet, even at night. Carriages clattered over cobblestones, pedestrians chattered, horses whinnied, and Erik's nerves rattled unhappily. He kept to the shadows, out of human sight, as he walked. Too much of his attention was confiscated by remaining concealed; he was unable to think of Christine, at least more than usual (Christine's image never left his mind).

Erik found his feet leading him to a familiar neighborhood of Paris, a familiar street, a familiar building. This was where his friend Nadir Khan, the former Daroga of Mazanderan, lived, having moved to Paris after being released from a prison in his native country. Erik still marveled that he had survived.

Perhaps Nadir could help him sort out this Christine-issue. Erik rarely went to others for help, even for conversation, but that was partly because there was no one to talk to. Nadir, though, might listen…back in Persia, Nadir had risked his life to deliver Erik from execution. In return, Erik had presented Nadir with some precious gems that he would need for money after his own escape, and acknowledged that he considered Nadir a friend. If anyone would listen to Erik in this moment of despair, it would be Nadir Khan.

When Erik knocked on his only friend's door, a very haggard and ill-looking Nadir opened it. Erik was faintly taken aback at first by the Persian man's unkempt hair and drawn face; was he sick?

"Good evening, Nadir," said Erik in Persian, by way of greeting.

"Erik?" Nadir blinked. "What in Allah's name are you doing here?"

"Can't a man stop by a friend's apartment?"

"You don't have any friends, Erik." Nadir sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Apparently not. But still, you would leave a…perhaps-not-friend standing in the cold?"

The Persian man shook his head grimly and stepped aside, allowing Erik inside the plain, half-lit apartment.

The door slammed. "Christine Daaé?" Nadir demanded suddenly. "_Christine Daaé_, Erik?"

_Oh, hell, I should have known he would say that…and I should have known this conversation would require a bit of explaining on my part…_ "What are you accusing me of now, Daroga? Surely you don't think I've harmed the girl!"

Nadir ran his hands through his hair. "For the sake of all that's good, Erik, I may have not been at the opera house two nights ago, but I am aware of what happened, and it's had me worried sick ever since! Christine Daaé, the leading soprano, was brutally whisked away by the Opera Ghost in the middle of a performance, but not before she pulled his mask off and he crashed the opera house's new chandelier, setting the place ablaze. And the girl hasn't been seen since! This isn't like you, Erik! Kidnapping and taking advantage of young divas…"

Erik's infamous temper sparked, and he seized Nadir's arm with incredible force. "You so quickly accuse me of such a _foul_ crime as 'taking advantage' of Christine? And as for the kidnapping, she stays in my home willingly."

"'Willingly?'" Nadir choked, his voice displaying the pain that Erik's grip caused. "You drag her off the stage by force and you claim she is with you willingly?"

Erik released the former Daroga of Mazanderan and leaned rather limply against a wall, his temper assuaged. "When I took her from the stage…at that time, she did not come with me willingly. But I had written the opera performed that night for her, and I took the place of the male lead so I could sing with her. Just before the incident you described, I asked her, nearly begged her, to choose me over her lover, that useless boy the Vicomte de Chagny."

"Why, Erik?" Nadir cradled his now-bruised arm. "Why that girl? She may be an actress—and they are usually quite fickle—but you expected her to run off with the Opera Ghost, who approached her out of nowhere?"

"Out of nowhere? Ah, I forget—I never told you. I have been Christine's voice teacher for the past thirteen years. After her debut, in the performance of _Hannibal­_—surely you were there?—I brought her to my home. I sang to her. She returned home the next morning."

"So that is where the promising young singer ran off to that night," Nadir remarked dryly. "And I suppose…your tutelage explains her talent."

Erik shrugged blithely. "Christine has a spectacular voice, Nadir. I simply guided it."

"But kidnapping her?" Nadir's small, dark eyes sparked with worry. "Just because she was your student…"

"Many things happened that night of which you do not know," Erik sighed heavily. "I took Christine from the stage in what I now recognize as a fit of insanity. I wanted her company, I was willing to shelve my pride and plead with her…but I did not know the entire opera that night was a plot to kill me. It was her idea. Not three months before I had also heard her pledge her love to that pathetic young slave of fashion, that Vicomte, after I spent thirteen years of my life laboring to make her happy and to make her voice perfect. You understand I was…desperate."

"So you _did_ kidnap the girl!"

"Oh, do calm down, Daroga, you always did get worked up so easily. After I brought Christine back to my home, Madame Giry, my messenger, brought Monsieur de Chagny there to rescue her. I captured him easily…" Erik trailed off. This bit would be hard to describe.

"You killed him." Nadir's voice dropped to the floor like a lead ball.

"No. I…threatened to, but I did not. I released him, and Christine."

"You let them go?" Nadir blinked. "Why?"

Erik pressed an open palm to the wall, as if to support himself further. "Christine…Christine kissed me."

"For the love of Allah, Erik, are you making this up as you go along?"

"No." The single word was weighted and pitched so that Nadir knew Erik was being truthful.

"She did…?"

"Yes. It was an act of sacrifice; an extremely brave one, at that. But I knew she meant nothing by it…and that she had the kindness to do such a thing astounded me. I couldn't keep her with me against her will. I let her go."

"Your story sounds like a scene from a novel, or an opera."

"I know." Erik smiled bleakly. "It might make a successful opera, now that you mention it."

"So you let her go…and she chose to remain with you?" The Persian's words were spoken incredulously.

"I's quite amused at your saying that as if it were completely out of the realm of the comprehensible," Erik snapped. But he continued the story. "Christine…is one of the most compassionate people I know. She could not leave with her fiancée knowing that there was a mob of gendarmes and murderous operagoers after me. She found me in one of the tunnels. I was going to let the mob kill me, but I heard them begin blaming Christine for the things that had happened…I couldn't let them hurt her. To make a long story short, I saved her life three times later that night. After the mob finally passed, I requested—_requested_, not forced—that she stay with me for three days. One day for each time I saved her. She believed it was fair, and she agreed to stay."

Nadir was mussing his hair again. "There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet," he muttered. Erik had spent enough time around Muslims to know that they said this rather than cursing as a Christian might. "Why can't you just let the girl go? She is _engaged_ now, after all! Why did you not give the child her voice lessons and then let her alone?"

Erik turned away from Nadir. It was a long moment before he found himself able to answer. "I love her."

Nadir was silent for even longer than Erik had been; when he spoke, his words were guarded and tentative. "Erik…you say you love her? You may be…attached to the child, after being her teacher…and I have seen the girl, I know that she is beautiful…"

"_Damn_ you, Daroga!" Erik roared suddenly, plowing his fist into the wall; it buckled slightly with the force of the blow. "You will not call her 'the girl,' or 'the child.' She is no child, she is a _woman_, to reach her twenty-first birthday in exactly forty-six days, and she has a _name, _you know! It's _Christine_, Christine Lovisa Daaé! And yes, she is beautiful, there is no woman on this earth whose beauty rivals hers, but you imply that I am a slave to lust who wants her for her _beauty_? Curse you, Nadir, I thought you knew me better than that!"

"I have never known you to feel affection for any woman, Erik! But certainly I never expected you to treat the woman you fall for like _this_!"

Erik's knuckles were turning white from the tightness of his fist. "I have done little…for thirteen years…but try to make Christine's dreams come true…" It was taking every ounce of self-control he had to not fly into a killing rage. "I would die a thousand torturous deaths for her!"

"Exactly!" Nadir gesticulated almost frantically. "Most men might not even say that they would die once for the women they love. A thousand…Erik, you don't speak of love, you speak of _obsession_! And this, this dragging her off the stage by force because she loves another man…"

"'Because she loves another man?'" Erik snarled. "She forgot her teacher and protector for over half her lifetime when her childhood sweetheart appeared out of bloody nowhere. That alone may have been…acceptable for me…but she tried to have me _killed_! Damned if I don't deserve to die, but am I not entitled to be a bit _upset_ when the only person I care for decides to loathe me?"

"If you did care for her, you would have let her go to her Vicomte without any trouble, and she'd have no reason to loathe you!" Nadir protested, edging away from Erik lest he decide to become violent.

"Really?" Erik swiveled to face Nadir with a look of pure malevolence. "You seem to have a point you haven't exactly made yet. Why don't you go ahead and say it?"

When Nadir replied, his expression was not one of fear, but one of unsubtle pity. "You don't love her."

Erik made no move except to turn his head to gaze blindly at the dent his fist had left in the plaster. _So, Nadir believes it as well? I dismissed the same accusation from Madame Giry easily…but is it true? Am I incapable of love? Is what I feel for Christine just a mix of mad desires?_

When Erik remained silent, Nadir continued. "Let the…let Christine go, Erik, and we'll forget about this farce."

"Christine will be gone after tomorrow, and I will travel to the United States and try to make a living there. Is it so wrong to want to spend a bit more time with her before I am separated from her forever?" He seemed to be speaking more to the wall than to Nadir.

"You wanted to spend time with her? Is that why you asked her to stay for the three days?" Nadir's voice was undeniably sorrowful.

"Yes. I wanted to know what it was like to be with Christine as…as something other than a discarnate voice teacher and a willing student. I have been as kind to Christine as I know how since she has agreed to stay with me. She seems…content, even happy."

"She is an _actress_, Erik." The former Daroga made an exasperated gesture.

For reasons Erik couldn't place, his retort withered on his tongue.

"Don't you see what you're doing?" Nadir continued. "You're trying to make her fall in love with you. Otherwise you would have let her go!"

"I am not trying to _make_ her do anything," Erik hissed, his voice like a whip.

"You can't do this, Erik! You can't steal that girl's love the way you stole Reza's!"

Erik's head snapped around. He had not even heard Nadir mention his dead son since Persia. "What are you speaking of, Daroga?" He queried icily. "I tried to ease your son's departure from this world, as I recall. You never protested that I was trying to keep the course of his terrible disease as painless as I could. I was fond of your son, and I was sorry for him, whereas I love Christine as a man loves a woman." He paused. "And I seem to remember you telling me that you were at peace with Reza's death!"

"I am at peace with Reza's death!" Nadir was shouting now, almost as vehemently as Erik had been a few minutes before. "What I cannot reconcile is that Reza began to think of _you_ as his father, and not me!"

Erik could not seem to move or speak. He felt as if his entire body had been encased in ice.

"You can't do the same with that girl. You won Reza over with toys and promises, but you can't win Christine over by keeping her in your home for three days and playing music for her! Leave the poor thing to her Vicomte and have done! You must leave her _alone_!"

"Would it have been better," Erik spat, "if I had never laid eyes on Christine? If I had never been the answer to her prayers for an Angel of Music, a teacher to nurture both her and her voice? Perhaps you should have taken me to Sari to be executed after all!"

Nadir looked steadily at Erik with a horrid, unbearable pain in his eyes. "Yes," he rasped. "Perhaps I should have."

That was answer enough for Erik. In a single motion, he flung the door open, swept outside, and slammed it shut again, ignoring Nadir's hurried protests that he had not meant that last remark.

This time, he made no attempt to conceal himself from the eyes of the public. It was pure luck that got him back to the opera house unscathed; the usual number of gendarmes patrolled the streets, and if any of them had spotted a suspicious-looking man in a white half-mask, they would have shot him on sight. Erik would have welcomed it at that point, but then again, he couldn't leave Christine alone in his home; she might not be able to get out without his help.

Erik's mind was in turmoil as he raced down to the dank, cold caverns where he lived. _Madame Giry was right, then, about me not loving Christine. Nadir knows much of love…I know nothing. I might have known where that conversation was going the second Nadir informed me that I have no friends…he is a decent man and was only willing to call himself my friend because he believed I was also capable of decent, human impulses. It seems as though he and Christine have both discovered the truth: I am a monster. Even after I came to believe that myself, why did I continue to believe I loved Christine? Perhaps it was Christine's newfound vehement denial of my monstrosity…but still, does it not stand to reason that an inhuman creature is incapable of human feelings? Nadir is right: I must release Christine immediately. I am indeed forcing her to feel affection for me, even if I never meant to…that is why she has been kind to me in the time that she's stayed here…and I had hoped that she was beginning to enjoy my company! What an utter fool I am!_

Erik raced to Christine's bedchamber.

She lay fast asleep on the black swan bed, dreaming peacefully. She was very still, a gentle smile curling the corners of her mouth; apparently her dreams were pleasant, nothing like the nightmare Erik was currently living. The bedclothes had been pushed down past her feet, and her dressing gown was hiked up to several inches above her knees, so her legs were almost entirely exposed. Remembering how easily Christine became cold in this particular environment, Erik carefully took the sheets and re-draped them over Christine's slender frame, letting them settle just below her chin. She giggled slightly in her sleep and brought her knees closer to her chest.

Erik knelt at her bedside. He had always found Christine even more adorable than usual when she slept. Deep in the throes of serene sleep, she looked so pure, so untainted by the many evils of the world. _Does that boy really know how lucky he is to have Christine? Will he care for her the way she deserves? He had better, for I will not be around to make sure he is treating her properly._

He reached to wake her, but his hand hovered over her shoulder; he could not bring himself to disturb her rest. But he had to, for every cell in his brain screamed to wake Christine up, to pack her belongings for her, to find a carriage to take her back to the Chagny mansion where she would live for the rest of her days in peace, safety and happiness with the Vicomte.

And he would never see her again.

If he set her free now, he would never again see her, never again speak to her, never again hear her sublime, brilliant singing voice that he had trained…and not an hour ago, he believed he would have at least one more priceless day with Christine…

A fresh wave of self-loathing struck him with painful force as he pulled his hand away from Christine. _You cruel, self-centered, depraved beast, you can't bear to send her to safety? You heard her say it herself, all she wants is "freedom, a world with no more night," and you won't grant her that because you want to gape at her for another day. Nadir is right: you can't possibly love her._

Erik hung his head, tears burning mercilessly in his eyes. _Oh, Christine, my precious angel, I'm so sorry…I just need to know you are here for one more night, and I promise, as soon as morning breaks, I will take you back to your Vicomte and leave you alone forever. I _promise_. A few more hours and you will be free of the monster for the rest of your life. Sleep well, Christine, and dream of the fairy tales you so love, for tomorrow morning you will have your happy ending._

When Erik looked up, he could see that Christine still wore the necklace that he had given her. It had twisted while she slept, so the clasp was in front. She shouldn't have to wear that thing; if Nadir was right, it was just a meaningless trinket that Erik had made to win her over. Cautiously, his hands trembling with the effort to not accidentally touch Christine herself, Erik unhooked the clasp and removed the piece of jewelry from his former student's neck and dropped it into his pocket.

He stood laboriously, making his way out of Christine's chambers. He returned to his pipe organ, where his latest composition, the one on which he had been working so industriously, lay. He picked it up and reread the lyrics, and felt faintly nauseated doing so; the reason he had been working on the piece in such a dedicated fashion was that it was a farewell song he was writing for Christine. It was not finished yet, but it was close to being complete. But he could never sing this to her; it was so bloody sentimental, and he had no right to impose his demented feelings on Christine, even the simple sorrow of losing her.

Erik held the paper in both hands, in a position from which it would be all too easy to rend it straight down the middle. But for the second time that night, he found himself unable to do the thing that should be done. As disgusting as the words of tenderness and sadness seemed now, they were still true.

He let the paper fall back onto the wooden surface and reached for the vase where he had placed the second day's rose. He ran his fingertips over one fragile petal. A red rose, the ultimate symbol of love. _How could I have been so wrong?_

Abandoning his work and his organ, Erik plodded wearily to his own chambers. The word _bedchambers_ could not have been used, for Erik did not sleep in a bedroom; he slept in a tomb. The walls were smoothed and painted black, sometimes with drapings of obsidian-colored curtains. The only candles in the room were not the usual cheerful white, but tall, thin, ebony tapers that gave off a pale blue smoke. His bed was a silk-lined coffin, which he considered very practical. After all, when he died, it would likely be in his sleep, and whoever found him would be much less unsettled at finding a corpse lying in a coffin than in a normal bed.

Not bothering to change into sleepwear or even remove his cloak, Erik clambered into his coffin with practiced ease and slept almost before his eyes closed.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Erik's nightmare didn't start out quite so terribly…

His quill was busy, scratching out notes, rhythms, dynamics, and lyrics on the page. Inspiration and talent flowed from his fertile musician's mind to his hand, then onto the paper, a veritable playground or perhaps some sort of exhibit for his songwriting genius.

A light clinking sound alerted him; there was now a new inkwell resting just above his composition.

"The ink you asked me for, monsieur." Christine's tone of voice waffled between coolness and fear.

He cut his eyes in her direction and smiled gently; she flinched in revulsion. "Why so formal, angel?"

"Please…my name is Christine. I'm not your angel."

Restraining a rather hurt sigh, Erik returned his gaze to his work. He did not get far; a strange, thick fog seeped over his paper, rising seemingly out of nowhere. Alarmed, Erik stood, and a cursory glance revealed that his entire home was being nearly consumed by this bizarre mist. "Stay close, Christine. I have a rather negative feeling about this."

"You're staging this mist so you can say that and have an excuse to hold me!" Christine shouted hotly, but when the fog began swirling malevolently around her she clung to his arm.

Visibility dropped at a disquieting rate; soon Christine and Erik were swaddled in what seemed to be a stifling white blanket. The whiteness faded to grey, then to a menacing black, and Christine whimpered softly. "Hush, Christine…you will be all right…"

Erik never actually finished that sentence; a searing, screaming heat and an eye-burning flash cut him off, knocking both him and his angel to the ground. He lay on the ground, stunned, his head throbbing with uncharacteristic agony. He struggled to rise, and when he did, Christine was nowhere to be found.

Panic seized Erik's heart like an eagle's claws, and he leapt to his feet, pain forgotten. "Christine!" he shouted frantically, his voice swallowed easily by the ugly, viscous blackness. "Christine! _Angel_!"

He ran blindly, one sole objective lodged firmly in his frenzy-dulled brain: _find Christine_.

When he did find her, it was an accident, for she lay still and spread-eagled and cold on the ground, and his foot brushed against her motionless form as he scrambled about recklessly. "Christine!" He knelt at her side, gathering her icy body into his arms. She hung there limply like a worn-out washrag, ready to be disposed of. "Christine, my Christine, please be all right…"

He brushed her lovely silky curls away from her porcelain face and nearly cried out at what he saw. Christine's angelic face was frozen in a rictus of death and horror, her doe-like eyes stretched to an impossible wideness, her shapely lips parted and frozen in a silent, eternal scream.

She was dead.

Crying unabashedly, Erik cradled his angel's lifeless body and kissed her hair. "My poor Christine…this is my fault, I should have protected you…my little angel…my Christine…"

A slight movement in the sinister surrounding darkness quickly made Erik's grief twist and transmogrify into rage. "Show yourself!" He bellowed raggedly. "If you are the bestial thing that killed this innocent woman, come out where I can tear you limb from limb!"

The thing laughed wickedly, a sound that raised the tiny hairs on the nape of Erik's neck, and it took a step toward him. Though she was already dead, Erik clutched Christine protectively to his chest.

The creature stood before Erik, smirking ruthlessly down at the man and his broken angel, smiling at the sorrow it had caused. Erik let out a strangled shout. The creature was…

"You!" The figure tossed back its head and snickered. It was indeed Erik, a perfect copy, a doppelganger, and it wore no mask, exposing its monstrous distortion for all to see. "Yes, Erik, you worthless, sentimental weakling, I am you, and I killed that sniveling little girl. Just another murder, no? You should be used to killing by now!"

"No," Erik breathed, but a quick examination proved that it was his own Punjab lasso that had wrought the last convulsing breaths from Christine's pale throat. "No!"

"Oh, no!" The creature mocked. "Yes, the little opera whore is dead. But you didn't love her anyway, did you?"

Erik felt his wrath build inside him like magma within a volcano. His whole body shook with a growing ire that was hot enough to burn through his soul. Never had he felt such hatred, such fury, but this evil, ugly, slimeball piece of filth had killed his Christine…_it had killed his Christine_…

The thing reared its head and laughed again.

That was when Erik attacked, flying at the creature with every ounce of his strength and two words that pierced the air like flaming arrows: "You _monster_!"  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Erik woke in a cold sweat. Christine…where was Christine? Was she all right? Was the dream a warning? Had he sleepwalked and strangled her as she slept?

He leapt from his coffin and bolted for Christine's room with heedless speed, the world around him seeming to warp to allow for quicker passage.

She lay undisturbed on her bed, quiet and unmoving.

"Christine!" Erik shook her, his voice nearly cracking with emotion. "Christine!"

She woke instantly. "Erik?" His expression frightened her: his every feature was taut with horror and hysteria. She had never seen him so…so terrified. "What's wrong?" she demanded, wrapping her small, warm hands around his thin ones.

To her surprise, he pulled her into a crushing embrace that softened as soon as he was convinced that she was in his arms. "Oh, Christine, my angel…"

"I'm here," she whispered back, returning the embrace wholeheartedly. _He must have had a nightmare…and it must have been such a horrific one, too! I've never seen him like this!_ She could feel his heart racing uncontrollably, even after he relaxed and began stroking her back, as if that would calm both of them. "Was it a nightmare, Erik?"

"Yes, Christine," he murmured harshly into her soft, welcoming mass of curls. "A nightmare."

"You can hold me for as long as you want, if it helps. What in God's name were you dreaming of?"

"You. Some…something killed you, and I was terrified the dream might be a warning."

"I am fine. It was only a dream." Christine was parroting the things Erik used to tell her when she was very young and still suffered frequent nightmares.

He said nothing; he only continued to caress her.

_If he's allowing himself to hold me like this, his nightmare must have been terrifying beyond belief. _"Erik, why don't you stay with me tonight? You won't have any more nightmares, I am sure."

That seemed to drag him back to reality, for he suddenly pulled away from her. An odd coldness flooded Christine's body when their embrace ended, and she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. "Stay with you?" he repeated, as if dumbfounded.

"Yes…I don't think you would have any more nightmares of me dying if you were with me, right?"

His panic at the nightmare forgotten, Erik was suddenly repulsed. In his foolish fear, he had actually dared to put his filthy arms around Christine's immaculate body, and now she was offering something even more repugnant. He could stay in her private quarters, where she would be asleep and completely defenseless? The idea of such a violation of her privacy was nothing short of blasphemous.

"No…no, it's all right, Christine. I rarely dream anyway; it's unlikely I will have another nightmare. Good night…I will not disturb you again."

Still shaken for more reasons than one, Erik paced back to his chambers. But when he arrived there and made to climb back into his coffin, a muffled screech made him stop. Christine stood in the doorway; she had followed him. One of her hands was clamped over her mouth, and her eyes held undisguised shock.

"It's a coffin," she stammered. "You sleep in a coffin!"

Erik nodded slowly. "Yes, I do."

She leaned against the wall for support. "Why do you sleep in a coffin?"

He shrugged lightly. "So when I die, some poor stagehand who discovers my body will find it where a dead body belongs, then he or she can bury it and have done. I thought it practical that I might as well start sleeping in a coffin now—in case I take ill, or something of the like."

Christine looked rather ill herself. "You expect me to sleep restfully while I think of you sleeping in a _coffin_?"

Erik smiled dourly. "I am not dead, Christine, merely…" _…unworthy of life. But I promised I wouldn't make such comments around her, didn't I?_ "…appearing to be so while I sleep."

"Oh, Erik, I don't wish to even picture you dead, if you'll recall! If I had a franc for each time I had to mention that…" Christine crossed to place her hand on his shoulder. He recoiled. "Please, stay in my room. I can't let you sleep _here._"

"I should not be in your quarters while you're sleeping. I created that area, your room, to be for you and you alone." Erik kept his head bent, refusing to look at Christine.

Christine knew she was fighting a losing battle, but she would not surrender so easily. "But it's my room right now, and I say you can stay with me. I'll sleep on the floor if you want…"

_Not a chance. Christine will never have to put her own comfort aside for my sake. _"No." Bracing his hands on the coffin's side, Erik heaved himself into his makeshift bed. Christine made a sound like a whimper.

"Erik…"

"Go back to your room," he said softly, sitting up. "Don't worry about me."

She dipped her head obediently. _He sleeps in a coffin. How can he stand it? And how can I get sleep now, while I picture him sleeping in this tomb?_ "Good night."

"Sleep well, Christine."

"I will…try." Her shoulders slumped as if in defeat, Christine slipped past the curtain-doors and headed back to her own room. It took her at least an hour to fall asleep; she lay still on her back, staring at the ceiling, picturing Erik sleeping quietly in his coffin as she battled a mix of sympathy and terror.

Erik fell asleep promptly. There were no nightmares this time, only horrid, sacrilegious, wonderful dreams of holding Christine and singing her familiar lullabies until she slept in his arms.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------A/N: Looks like Erik was finally beginning to realize that Christine actually likes him when Nadir messed things up. Well, Nadir has always been a worrywart in an adorable sort of way, and we all say things we don't mean…

_authoress ducks Punjab lasso_ HEY! Erik, I'm surprised at you! I know you're going through a lot of angst in this story right now, but still, I thought you didn't kill women! Not to mention I'm only sixteen, you could barely even call me a woman… _ducks lasso again_ Erik, Christine will be yours by the end of this story, I promise. So quit trying to kill me, if you please.

I think something may be happening to Christine here…she's…she's…OMFG, she's growing a spine! Finally! We always knew you were stronger, Christine! (We'll see if she's able to convince Erik that Nadir doesn't exactly know what he's talking about…come on, we all know Erik loves Christine, right?)

I have no idea how the timeline in this story works, hence Erik's ignorance regarding his own age. We'll say he didn't spend as much time in Russia, the Orient, and Belgium as he did in Kay's book. That way he could be around for longer in the Paris opera house to teach Christine and watch her grow up.

Christine's middle name, Lovisa, is a traditional Swedish name that means "renowned maid." I just like that name.

P.S. Do not lose hope! Note that the summary still reads, "will be EC!"


	6. Day Three Part One

Three Days

Day Three: Comity  
Part One

Summary: Slightly AU; what if Christine ran back to Erik as the mob approached, just to make sure he survived? And what if she stayed in Erik's kingdom of darkness for three days before returning to Raoul? ALW-based, with Kay influence because I FINALLY READ _PHANTOM_! w00t!

Disclaimer: If I owned _Phantom of the Opera_ and its many versions, Erik and Christine would have ended up together. So needless to say, I don't own any of them. (And if Kay's ending can be construed as Erik and Christine ending up together, I still don't own it.)

Pairings: Erik/Christine (doy)

Author's Notes: Christine will get to use her newly-grown spine in this day. Meaning, she's not going to let Erik give her up without a fight!

I apologize for the problems caused by Nadir in the last chapter. I love Nadir, but he's a worrywart, and his worrying just came at the wrong time. Also, Erik, maybe there would be less angst if you didn't wallow so much…_authoress sees Erik twirling Punjab lasso_…THAT WAS A JOKE! I can't write about you and Christine finally getting together if you kill me, you know!  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erik woke very early.

He had always been able to get up almost instantly after waking, greeting the approaching day with a somber readiness. Today, he lay still in his coffin for at least a few minutes, knowing once he rose, it would be that much closer to the time when he would have to release Christine.

But he had promised, albeit silently, that he would return Christine to her fiancée as soon as morning broke, so he forced himself to climb out of his coffin and seal it shut. One advantage to sleeping in a tomb was that he never needed to neatly arrange his bedclothes after waking; he simply closed the coffin's lid.

Erik had forgotten to replace his clothing with sleepwear the previous night, so he merely changed into a new outfit for the daytime. Finding a certain sense of apathy as far as his clothing went, he dressed relatively simply, choosing black trousers and a loose white lawn shirt. He was careful, though, to remove Christine's rose necklace from his pocket and find a safe place for it. Even if Christine was not going to wear it, there was no harm in keeping it, right?

His feet seemingly as heavy as his heart, Erik trudged to Christine's room. She was sleeping soundly, curled up with the crimson sheets wrapped snugly around her lissome little body.

Resisting the urge to admire Christine and memorize just how adorable she looked when she slept, he bent over her tranquil form and tugged lightly on the sheets to wake her. "Christine?"

She stirred; she had always been a light sleeper, at least as far back as Erik could remember. When her drowsy eyes cracked open slightly, Erik leaned away from her. Christine sat up halfway, leaning on one of her elbows. "Erik?" She brushed a few stray curls away from her face; she missed one, and the soft dark spring remained draped over her eyebrow. Erik suppressed the desire to gently push the wayward curl back into the silky mass of her hair.

"Good morning, Christine. I know it is early, but I thought you might enjoy seeing the sunrise."

Christine sat up fully, the chocolate-colored circles of her eyes alight with happiness and curiosity. "Yes, I would."

"You will have to hurry, then."

"I will." Christine got up immediately and began searching her saddlebags for a fresh gown. Erik smiled a little at her alacrity, then retreated to the kitchen to prepare her breakfast. There was not enough time to make the porridge she so enjoyed, so he spread a baguette with marmalade. He also snapped a fresh banana off the bunch and placed it beside Christine's baguette and glass of water, remembering that she enjoyed peeling it herself.

Christine rushed into the kitchen just as Erik finished laying out her breakfast. She was neatly clad in a close-fitting, lemon-colored gown with a line of tiny ivory buttons from collar to waistline; she had dressed so quickly, Erik wondered if the buttons were false.

"Your timing is eerie, Christine."

She only smiled and slid rather elegantly onto her chair. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You are going to eat, aren't you?" Her voice was almost comically sober.

"Yes, I will…just not now. Leave off that staring at me, Christine, I _am_ going to eat something this morning." _I was so preoccupied with her planned departure, I forgot to prepare any food for myself. I have to stop thinking of losing her…I must ignore all my feelings related to her leaving until after she is gone. I don't want her last memories of me to be of my crying like a nancy over her; she might feel guilty._

He swept out of the kitchen to gather up Christine's belongings for her.

"Erik?" Christine interrupted his exit. "You aren't going to stay with me?"

The faint tones of hurt in her voice felt like a light slap on Erik's heart, but there wasn't time for him to sit with her. _If only there were time…_ "I will return shortly."

"Well…all right." Hesitantly, Christine went back to eating as the sound of Erik's footfalls dwindled. As she delicately raised her baguette to her mouth, she found herself mulling over Erik's slightly off behavior. He was dressed more informally than usual, but Christine liked that; it made him look more relaxed and casual, and the looseness of his shirt concealed his frightening thinness well. What was stranger, though, was his state of mind…he seemed so distracted, so distant. _Is he still thinking of that awful nightmare he had last night? Or perhaps…perhaps I have done something to anger him._

Meanwhile, Erik packed Christine's things quickly, going through the motions and not thinking of how Christine would be gone forever in less than an hour. He simply replaced her belongings in a very mechanical, lifeless manner. There was little to do; Christine was very organized.

Erik carried Christine's saddlebags to the kitchen doorway and sidled inside. Christine had just finished eating. "Am I too late? Can we still see the sunrise?"

He glanced at a mantel clock perched atop one of the cabinets. "I believe we can still see it, yes."

Christine stood and smoothed her lovely gown. "Shall we go?"

"If you wish." Erik stepped aside, allowing Christine to pass by, and dipping his head respectfully as she walked before him. "You are so eager to escape the darkness of my home?"

She gave him a startled look. "No…I just want to see the sunrise. I've only ever seen sunsets."

Erik nodded. "Very well." He led her to one of his home's exits, but not before retrieving his cloak and fastening it around his neck.

"Do you ever go out without your cloak, Erik?"

"No, I daresay I don't."

"Why?"

"Habit, I suppose."

On this particular occasion, habit would pay off; Erik could tote Christine's bags in one hand, and use the long folds of his cloak to conceal them. He was not planning to tell Christine that he was freeing her until they were safely out of the opera house. If she prematurely noted that he was carrying her things, a sufficiently awkward moment might result.

Erik guided Christine up many floors of twisting, contorted staircases and passages. Rusty iron torches lined the rough walls through much of the journey, but almost none of them were lit, and Christine could barely see. She took Erik's hand so they wouldn't become separated, and he consented to let Christine continue doing so…for practical reasons, of course.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Christine?"

"Where are we going? From where in Paris can we actually see the sunrise?"

"We are going to the roof."

"The roof? Is that safe, after the fire?"

"If I come to believe it is unsafe as we ascend, then we will return. If it were me alone, I would risk it, but…I have you here."

Christine blushed, touched by his unconditional concern for her. When he mentioned things like that—things that clearly displayed how he cared for her well-being—he always spoke very levelly and casually, as if it were nothing unusual that he valued Christine's safety more than his own. Erik and Raoul had such different ways of saying that they cared…Raoul's indication did not go beyond the occasional placid "I love you," while Erik insouciantly offered to kill himself if it would put Christine's mind at rest.

They came to a small, completely dark compartment at the top of one tightly spiraling staircase. Erik could see perfectly; Christine might as well have been blind. When Erik released her hand, she strangled a soft whimper of fear, but quickly chided herself for being so unsettled by a thing as childish as a dark room. Besides, Erik was there.

There was a small, metallic clinking sound, then the distant noise of rotating, interlocked gears and cogs. A crack of dusty blue light appeared overhead, growing first into an oblong and then a square. A slanted beam of twilight streamed down, piercing the blackness. Outside of the beam and therefore Christine's view, Erik slid his guest's belongings into a corner.

"You built this?"

"Yes."

"The night of _Il Muto_…did you use this door to get onto the roof?"

"I did. Do you think you can climb up by yourself?"

Christine considered. There was nothing for her to use as a stepstool, and the opening was about at her eye level; she had been bending over before to keep her head from colliding with the ceiling.

"I don't think so."

"Very well. Shall I climb up first and then lift you up?"

"Wouldn't it be easier if you helped me up now?"

Erik hesitated. _Easier, yes, but also more awkward._ "Yes, if you…don't mind."

"No, not at all."

There was a brief, unsettled silence.

Erik chose to break it by kneeling, one foot still planted on the floor, and suggesting, "Step on my knee and I will lift you up."

"Won't that hurt your leg?"

"Most likely not. You don't weigh much. But does it matter?"

So Christine stepped delicately up onto Erik's leg, and he took her carefully by the ankles and raised her up so that she could clamber onto the roof. Underestimating her trajectory, Christine careened forward with a surprised caterwaul. _I hadn't known he was strong enough to push me up that far!_ She scrambled inelegantly to her feet. Erik followed with his usual nonchalant grace. "Are you all right, angel? Did I hurt you?"

"I am fine." She brushed herself off. _Erik is much stronger than he looks…especially considering he is so malnourished…_

"Look to the east, Christine…I believe we made it here just in time."

Christine looked, and let out a soft breath somewhere between gasp and sigh; the very tip of the sun's circle was peeking shyly over what horizon she could see, and the sapphire sky was stained a husky rich violet.

She took a few steps closer to the edge of the roof and sat, cross-legged, to watch the sunrise. Erik remained standing beside the trapdoor. "Erik," Christine beckoned with an almost playful smile, "come sit with me."

Seeing no harm in that as long as he wasn't touching her, Erik silently acceded to her request. Beside him, Christine pressed her elbows onto her knees and leaned on her hands, drinking in the sight of the changing sky, the darkness shot with streaks of plum, crimson, and saffron. Erik watched with a slightly less positive attitude. The colors were beautiful, yes; but for him, the sunrise did not signify the beginning of a new day, but the ending of the delicate, majestic darkness of the night. _How fitting,_ Erik thought blandly. _I live in the nighttime. I thrive on the darkness. My music is the music of the night. But without Christine, my music—and my life, my existence as well—is no more. For so long, I was alive, but never truly lived, but that was before Christine. Without her, there is no comforting cloak of nighttime under which to hide, only perpetual garish daytime, with its scorching, cruel sun that burns away true beauty and leaves ugly, arid patches of lifelessness. And here she sits, drinking in the sunrise and smiling._

He glanced over at Christine, noting how the soft conflagration of color spilled over her flawless profile, the light enhancing the joyful shine of her eyes. _This is the curious, quiet, happy Christine I know, not the terrified wreck I made of her the past three months. What is it that healed her? Is it the knowledge that she will soon be free of me? Is it the sunrise, surely a welcome change after the unending blackness of my home? Is there even the slightest chance that it is the kindness that I've tried to show her the past few days?_

Erik would have preferred watching Christine's happiness to watching the sky, but he would have to become used to not being able to see her anyway, so he returned his attention to the sunrise. The glowing orb was almost completely visible now, the sky imbued with the hues of gloaming, and the night retreating to the western horizon.

"It's so beautiful," Christine sighed. "But it's also sad, in a way."

"Sad?" Erik repeated. That was how _he_ thought of the sunrise…

"Yes. There's a new day, but there's also one ending. The night is over."

Erik stared blankly into the sun, which was still not bright enough to burn his eyes. "I have always thought primarily of the night ending, not the day beginning," he replied tonelessly.

Christine turned her head to look at him. The unmasked side of his face was visible to her, so she could see that his expression was one of soul-deep sorrow that he was struggling to hide. Struck by a sudden wave of tenderness for her troubled mentor and guardian, she reached to place one hand on his shoulder. He faced her, surprised. "What is it, Christine?" he queried, thinking the touch was meant to gain his attention.

"Nothing, I just…" At a loss for words, she briefly tightened her grip in a gentle squeeze.

He rested his hand on her wrist, and for a moment she thought he was going to take her hand, but he moved it back to her side instead.

"You still don't want to touch me?" Christine questioned, slightly wounded.

"Something like that," he answered flatly.

_I wonder if Erik is angry with me. I thought he was no longer apprehensive about…physical contact…_ Christine returned her gaze to the sunrise. It was no longer a sunrise in the truest sense of the word, for the horizon no longer concealed any of the sun's disc.

"The sun has fully risen," said Erik abruptly. "Do you wish to return now?"

"All right," Christine conceded, standing up.

"Do you need help descending through the trapdoor?"

Having stridden back to the opening, Christine peered through it. "I think so."

"I will go first, then."

Erik slid through the open door with practiced ease. Christine perched on the edge, her legs dangling, and hesitated.

"I will catch you if you fall."

Reassured, Christine dropped into the darkened chamber. She miscalculated her fall (again!) and pitched forward; Erik caught her, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder and the other at her waist. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Christine felt a rush of heat to her cheeks. "I'm a little clumsy."

"You aren't used to climbing around like this," he corrected her, withdrawing his hands from her arm and her side. "Come."

Christine followed him again, but this time she did not cling to his hand. On one winding staircase, Erik got a step farther ahead of Christine so she could not see him. Swallowing her fear as best she could, she pressed her body against a wall and waited for Erik to realize that she was no longer following him. This took only a few seconds; he emerged from the darkness and whispered, "You must be careful not to get separated from me like that, Christine."

"I can't see in the dark like you. Would you take my hand, so I don't get lost? Please?"

"Very well." He extended his un-gloved left hand to her, and she took it willingly with both of hers. His skin was cold, but warmed steadily under her touch.

They continued through the near-labyrinth of corridors and steps, but this time the path Erik chose took them, not back to his home, but to a small alcove just outside the opera house.

"Here we are. I was afraid that the fire might have caused this route to collapse, but it seems I was wrong."

"Erik, what are we doing here?"

_She will be gone in a matter of seconds…No! Do not think. Just get Christine back where she belongs, then you can return to your egotistical moping. _"Come, Christine," said Erik heavily. "We will find a carriage for you."

"Where are we going?" _Why did he not tell me we were going somewhere else?_

"'We' are not going anywhere. I will return to my home shortly. You will take a carriage back to your boy's manor. I've brought your belongings for you." He handed her saddlebags to her; in her shock, she nearly dropped them.

"_What_?"

"I am releasing you a day early. You are free." Erik spoke with a tonelessness that was almost supernatural.

"But why?" She clutched his arm. "Why are you sending me away early? Have I…done something to anger you?"

Surprised, Erik gently pried Christine's hands from his arm and caressed them. "What could you have possibly done wrong?"

"I don't know…maybe I bothered you with my questions, or…" Christine could not think of anything else. "Why else would you send me away?"

"I am not sending you away, Christine, I am letting you go."

"But why? Don't you want me to stay the final day? And I promised…"

He interrupted, his words cutting through hers like a dull scythe. "You promised nothing. I requested that you stay with me for three days. You said it was fair. You never even mentioned that you would actually stay."

"Are you sending me back because I didn't promise?"

"No. I am releasing you because I have no right to keep you with me if I can't…" The words stuck in Erik's mouth. "…love you." His cold, mindless calm was beginning to disintegrate.

Now Christine was completely bewildered. "Erik, what on Earth do you mean, you can't love me?" _He has always claimed to love me, and he does, I've seen it! After all I put him through, he is still so kind to me, and even values my life more than his. And when I kissed him…he could have taken that as proof that I chose him. Instead, he released Raoul and me, because he knew that was what I wanted. _"If you don't love me, then…Raoul must hate me."

Erik laughed hollowly. "A man does not kidnap and terrify the woman he loves, am I right?"

"I was terrified because of my ignorance. You kidnapped me because I tried to have you killed, but you let me go."

Erik held Christine's hands to his chest and said nothing, but he pulled away when she flattened her palms against his heartbeat.

"Erik, why did you suddenly…decide this?"

"Last night. I was afraid that I might have been…influencing you with my voice." He replied to her question, but still refused to look at her.

"Why would you think that?"

"You embraced me twice yesterday, for one thing. I was worried about you, but I did not know what to do; I could have asked you, 'By the way, Christine, am I hypnotizing you again?'" But I doubt that would have worked." Erik paused, steeling himself for a difficult subject, before continuing. "I went to Nadir Khan for advice. Have I ever told you about Nadir?"

"I don't think so…is he that Persian man who I often see around the opera house?"

"Yes. He is the former Daroga—chief of police—of the court of Mazanderan. He was the one who found me in Ninji-Novgorod, in Russia, and brought me to Persia on the shah's orders. He is the only man I have ever been able to call 'friend.'"

"Really?"

"Yes. Nadir had a son, Reza, who was only a child, but was already stricken with a terrible malady; a wasting disease. The disease was terminal, and incurable, so I tried to make Reza's death as painless as possible. I made him beautiful toys and made sure he wanted for nothing. When he was dying, and in pain, I gave him one of my concoctions, so he would simply go to sleep."

"That was kind of you," whispered Christine.

"Nadir was ordered by the shah to arrest me and return me to the court to be executed. Rather than doing that, he arranged for my escape, and I gave him some of the gems I possessed so he would have money when he made his own escape."

"You went to talk to him last night?"

"Yes. He…helped me to realize that the feelings I have for you…" He stopped, unable to continue.

Christine understood, despite his silence. "He doesn't know what you feel for me. He could be wrong."

_Christine, angel, please don't make this more difficult than it already is. _"Nadir may not know my exact feelings for you, but unlike me, he does know of love. He is Muslim, so his religion allows him to take seven wives, and he can certainly remarry after one dies. He has had only one wife, Rookheeya, and she died of the same illness that took Reza. Out of respect and devotion to Rookheeya, he never remarried. That, Christine, is love."

"And you putting my life before yours isn't?" Christine pressed. "There is not only one kind of love, Erik."

"I see. Does one of those kinds involve accidentally controlling the loved one's feelings and actions?"

_This again! He is so certain that no one can treat him with kindness of his or her own volition! _"You aren't controlling me. I'm not afraid of you anymore. I want to stay the final day with you. Yet you so quickly believe that you can't love me?"

Erik raised and lowered one shoulder. "I was created as a twisted mockery of all that is human. Does it not stand to reason that I can feel only a twisted mockery of human emotions?"

_Crack!_

Stunned, Erik placed a hand on his stinging cheek. Christine had finally followed through on her threat to slap him if he continued to call himself a monster…or apparently, anything of the like.

"You promised," she said simply.

"Yes, I suppose I did." His tightened in what might have been a smile. "At least I know you did _that_ of your own volition."

"Erik…" She carefully rested her palm of the cheek that she had just slapped. Erik turned his head away from Christine's light touch, but not completely. "Don't assume that you're 'controlling' me when I'm kind to you. I act how I choose to."

_Does that mean Christine enjoys spending time with me?_ "You promise that is true?"

"I promise!" Christine vowed, flinging the words like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

Erik took a single dark curl from her scalp and stroked it. "So you wish to stay the third day?"

She nodded. "May we go home now? I mean, back to your home?"

"Yes. Come, we must go before someone recognizes me…or you, for that matter, unless you wish to be inundated with requests for autographs."

"All right. And Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Once we get back, you should eat something."  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When they returned to Erik's caverns, Christine felt so tired that she was falling asleep against his arm, so she went back to sleep for a few more hours.

_She must have had genuine trouble sleeping last night…was it because she was worried about me sleeping in a coffin? Poor thing, she is so sympathetic…_

While Christine slept, Erik kept his promise (one of the promises, anyway) to Christine and ate breakfast. It was more like half a breakfast to most people, but Erik was still unable to eat as much as a healthy man. _I wonder if I would have starved myself to death if Christine had not made me promise to start eating again._

He began work on the drawing Christine had requested. He marked out rough outlines of himself, the pipe organ, and Christine. She took more detailed form first, her eyes, her face, her entire body radiating the simple joy of song.

He quickly became absorbed in his work, so much so that he did not sense Christine's presence, or even hear her approaching footsteps, until she laid her fingertips on his arm and remarked softly, "It looks beautiful so far."

Erik faced her. "Ah, there is my sleeping beauty. Are you rested now?"

"I am." When she tried to take a second look at the drawing, Erik flipped it over.

"Not yet; I don't like to unveil unfinished products."

"I look so beautiful in your pictures. Why do you draw me that way?"

"I draw you as I see you, Christine. Will you please stop doubting your beauty? After all, I promised not to call myself a monster anymore."

"That is different. True character is more important than appearance; you taught me that."

"Of course. But you are extremely beautiful, so why not acknowledge it?"

She shook her head. "You only say that because you love me."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Christine."

She knelt on the bench beside him. "I was wondering if I could have my lesson now."

"Oh…very well. You nearly mastered the bits of my requiem that we were working on. Is there something else you wish to sing?"

"Yes, actually. You've told me many stories from the places where you've been. But could you teach me a song you learned on your travels?"

"Of course. Have I ever taught you any foreign songs? I do believe I have…"

Christine tilted her head to one side contemplatively. "There was that one German Christmas carol you taught me, that Christmas when I was thirteen…what was it called?"

"Ah, I remember that." The smallest vestige of a smile flitted across Erik's mouth. "_Leise Rieselt der Schnee_. I came across that song on a brief trip from Belgium to Germany for Christmas…after you learned it, you would go around singing it quietly. It began to bother your friend little Giry, as I recall."

"I didn't want to forget it." Christine couldn't help but smile, remembering that Christmas when she had nearly driven the other ballet girls to insanity singing the came carol over and over. "I still remember it. _Leise rieselt der Schnee, still und starr legit der See…_"

Infected by her enthusiasm, Erik joined her. "_Weihnachtlich glänzet der Wald; freue dich, 's Christkind kommt bald!_"

There were three more verses, but in spite of her happy reminiscence, Christine wanted to learn something new.

"Are there any other songs you think I would like? Any foreign ones?"

"Yes…let me check my archives for a suitable song."

Christine had seen Erik's musical library, which contained more written music than she had ever seen in one place. And Erik had written much of it.

He returned carrying two thin musical manuscripts; he handed one to her and placed the other on the small stand above the keyboards. "This is an Italian folksong called _O Mio Babbino Caro_. The woman singing it is pleading with her father, who does not want her to marry. The singer claims that her lover already has proposed to her, and if the father won't allow her to go to her beloved, she will jump off the Ponte Vecchio bridge into the Arno River."

Christine snickered, placing a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. "I'm sorry…it sounds a bit…ridiculous. But it shouldn't be, because the girl is so devoted…"

"I suppose it depends upon how you look at it." Erik struck a chord. "We'll do your warm-ups before we begin with the jumping off bridges."

She took her place beside the bench and dutifully began the usual ascending triad exercise.

When the warm-ups were over, Christine plucked the _O Mio Babbino Caro_ music from where she'd left it on the organ and began glancing over it, audiating the notes.

"It's a fairly easy piece, especially for you, and it is also a bit low. Nothing out of your best register, of course, but not pushing your high range at all. I want to see how you work the dynamics of the piece."

"All right."

"Here is your starting note…" Erik depressed a key, and a single tone rang out in the cool air. Christine placed a finger on her temple, as if to imprint the note in her consciousness. "I will start with the organ, and you enter on the first beat of measure six. Begin." Erik gently played the first five measures, and then Christine's voice, soft and pure, filled the air.

"_O mio babbino caro, mi piace é bello, bello; vo'andare in Porta Rossa, a comperar l'anello! Sí sí, ci voglio andare! E se l'amassi invano, andrei sul Ponte Vecchio, ma per buttarmi in Arno!"_

She paused, and Erik's playing halted. "Is something wrong, Christine?"

"No, I was just wondering…that is the part where I claim I will jump into the river?"

"Yes, it is. Now, we'll try it again from the beginning. Play with this a bit more; you're getting the notes, now put some feeling into it. Keep in mind you are pleading to go meet the person you love, and you would rather die than be separated from him."

She nodded. "I will."

"I'll begin at measure five. Be sure to take a deep breath on beat four, before you come in." Erik played a single measure, then Christine leapt in with her singing.

"_O mio babbino caro, mi piace é bello, bello; vo'andare in Porta Rossa, a comperar l'anello! Sí sí, ci voglio andare! E se l'amassi invano, andrei sul Ponte Vecchio, ma per buttarmi in Arno! Mi struggo e mi tormento! O Dio…"_

The single note resonated, high and sweet and quivering with flawless vibrato, filled with convincing sorrow. Erik stopped playing, allowing Christine a fermata that was not written in the music.

"…_vorrei morir!_"

Erik's fingers moved over the keys again, complementing Christine's achingly perfect vocals.

"_O mio babbino caro, Babbo, pietá, pietá! Babbo, pietá, pietá." _She let the last note fade lovingly into nothingness, and Erik accompanied the disappearing sound with a soft chord.

"Remarkable. You've nearly mastered it, and you've only run through it once."

"Thank you." Christine flushed a bit.

"Shall we go through it again? You were much more expressive that time, but I believe you can still do more. Perhaps crescendo more from 'e se l'amassi,' so there is more sound behind the 'ma per buttarmi in Arno.'"

"I will."

They practiced the song thrice more, and by the third time, it was magnificent, with the organ and the voice blending perfectly, both darkly radiant with the torment and anguish of heartbreak.

"Beautiful, Christine. It would improve with drill, of course, but for a single lesson, you've made amazing leaps with this song."

"Thank you. It's a lovely song."

"I thought you might like it."

She climbed back onto the bench. "Will you sing for me? Some other songs that you learned on your travels?"

He nodded slowly. "If you wish. What would like to hear?"

"Maybe another song from Italy. Something happier, though."

"Ah. No more jumping off bridges?"

Christine chuckled softly. "No."

"Very well…" Erik drummed his fingers lightly over the keys, not hard enough to press the ivories and play notes. "I'll sing you _Santa Lucia_. It's rather upbeat; a gondolier is driving his boat on the canals at night, and singing."

"May I hear it?"

"Yes." Erik played a mid-tempo, brightly melodic introduction before singing, the rich, dark tone of his voice overlaid with an uplifting air. "_Sul mare luccica, l'astro d'argento, placida e l'onda, prospero e il vento. Venite all'agile, barchetta mia, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia! O dolce Napoli, o suol beato, ove sorridere, volle il creato! Venite all'agile, barchetta mia, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia! Venite all'agile, barchetta mia, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!_"

When he played the rallentando conclusion, Christine clapped. It was juvenile, she knew, but she still loved hearing Erik sing. She had heard him sing many things, but she had never heard him sound genuinely _happy_. Of course, being Erik, he wasn't overly cheerful at all, but _Santa Lucia_ was a song to be performed in high spirits, and Erik had complied.

"Fairly simple, like most folksongs, but it is one of my personal favorites."

"Mine too, I think."

"No offense intended, angel, but I believe I have heard more Italian folksongs than you."

"I know. But I do like that song. Especially when you sing it…I've never heard you sing like that."

He faced her, surprised. "Like what?"

"Like…like you're truly happy."

Erik laughed dryly. "Happiness is a bit…foreign to me, I suppose. Likely that's why you've never heard me sound _happy_."

"Is it because you are singing for me?"

He exhaled slowly. "Most possibly." He seemed to mentally shake himself before asking, "What else would you like to hear?"

"You said you've seen the Orient?"

"Yes. I have."

"I've never heard any Asian music…"

"Done. I'll sing you a folksong from China then." He slowly rolled off a chord. "The Chinese are a strange people, Christine. They have had many bloodthirsty emperors, seen war and invasion and corruption, their black markets and crime rings are…extensive…but everywhere one goes in China, everyone knows this song, even places where the language is not spoken."

"Does everyone not speak Chinese?"

Erik almost laughed, but then again, his angel had been very sheltered from the outside world. "It's a large nation, Christine. There are many different languages. This song is actually written in a language that was brought into China by invaders."

"What is it called?"

"_Da Hai a Gu Xiang_." Erik's fingers danced over the keyboard, and a series of light, skipping notes filled the air. When he began to sing, Christine could not understand the words, but for some reason, that didn't matter at all.

"_Ciao shi ho ma ma dui wa xia, da hai zhu shu wa gu xiang, hai bien chu shang, hai li chang zhang…Da hai a da hai, shi wa chang zhang da di fang, hai fang tui hai lang yang, sui wa piao liu ser fang!_"

"It's so short," Christine noted when he had finished the song.

"Then I will sing the second verse…" He did, and when he began the final chorus, Christine chimed in an octave higher, believing that she now knew the sounds well enough.

"_Da hai a da hai, shi wa chang zhang da di fang, hai fang tui hai lang yang, sui wa piao liu ser fang!_"

As the last notes dissipated, Christine remarked, "I like that one."

"You've enjoyed every one so far, angel."

"So, you know which songs I like. But I am not surprised…you certainly know me well enough to guess my taste in songs. Would you sing me another one from Italy? It's such a lovely-sounding language."

"Of course. This is a sad one, though."

"It is?" Christine pulled her legs underneath her. "What is it about?"

"It is called _Addio Mia Bella_. It is sung from the perspective of a soldier going off to war, and he is saying farewell—_addio_—to his beloved. He may not ever see her again, if he died in the war."

_Like him saying farewell to me. But at least the soldier has some hope…Erik knows he will never see me again_. "May I hear it?" She took his elbow gently; his arm was relaxed when her hands closed around it, but he suddenly tensed like steel beneath her soft grip.

"Christine, I can't play…with you like that."

She protested quietly, "Maybe if you _relaxed_, you could."

"Don't _taunt_ me, Christine."

"I'm not." She let go. "I just wish you weren't still afraid of me doing something as simple as taking your arm."

"Christine…" his fingers curled inward with tension until a few choked, discordant notes escaped the organ's pipes. "You have to understand that a few days ago I finally accepted that you hated me. It is difficult to accept any sort of affection from you without thinking that I might have guns pointed at my head."

Christine flinched. Erik saw it.

"I am sorry—that was uncalled for."

"No, no, I deserved it." She hung her head.

"Look at me," Erik urged her, using his gentlest, silkiest voice and cupping his hand under her chin (still not touching her, of course). Feeling the warmth of his words settle on her shoulders like a comforting shawl, she met his eyes. They shone softly, but behind the slow glimmer was a smoldering intensity that she used to find both frightening and intriguing. Christine found herself remembering something Madame Giry had once said about people's eyes…something about eyes being windows to the soul…

He spoke again. "You did not deserve that remark. I am sorry."

Christine ripped her gaze away from Erik's remarkable eyes. "It's…it's all right."

"I will play you that song now…"

This organ introduction was the slowest and most melancholy so far. Christine listened quietly as Erik's mournful yet somehow courageous voice took over the song.

"_Addio, mia bella, addio, che l'armata se ne va; addio, mia bella, addio, che l'armata se ne va. E se non partissi anch'io sarebbe una viltà; e se non partissi anch'io sarebbe una viltà."_

To her surprise, Erik then began singing the translated verse. "_Farewell, my love, I leave thee, the fleet must now depart; farewell, my love, I leave thee, the fleet must now depart. Should I not go, believe me, 'twould show a coward heart; should I not go, believe me, 'twould show a coward heart_."

He continued the song in Italian. "_Il sacco è reparato, e sull'omero mio sta; il sacco è reparato, e sull'omero mio sta. Sono uomo e son soldato, viva la libertà! Sono uomo e son soldato, viva la libertà!_"

Erik stopped playing abruptly. His hands shivered slightly over the keyboards. "There is…one more verse…"

"Erik, what's wrong?"

He said nothing, turning his face away from her.

"This song reminds you of me, doesn't it?" _Or at least, it reminds you of me leaving_.

Erik nodded slowly. "It does."

Christine reached for his hand, but drew back. She would have meant it as comfort, but Erik likely wouldn't have taken it that way. Instead, she chose to ask, "May I hear the last verse?" speaking as gently as possible.

"Yes." Seeming to have gotten hold of himself again, Erik finished the song. "_Ma non ti lascio sola, ma ti lascio un figlio ancor; ma non ti lascio sola, ma ti lascio un figlio ancor. Sarà quel che ti consola, il figlio dell'amor. Sarà quei che ti consola, il figlio dell'amor_."

"I may not be able to understand all the words, but it does sound sad."

"It is. But unlike the soldier, I know that the one I care for will be happy once we are separated." Gingerly, he rested the back of his hand against her shoulder, and she immediately wrapped her fingers around his. _I think he is trying to get over his apprehension…or perhaps he's sorry about what happened a minute ago._ "Is there anything else you would like to hear?"

"If there is another song you think I would like…"

His eyes seemed to glow suddenly. "There is. It is not actually a song from any of the places I visited, but it is one I learned it in an Italian port city where travelers came from all over the world—and brought their music with them. It comes from Ireland, and there are many versions, but this is my favorite one."

Christine let her eyelids drift shut as the song began.

"_May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and the rains fall soft upon your fields. Until we meet again, my friend, until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand…May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and the rains fall soft upon your fields. Until we meet again, we meet again, may God hold you in his hand_."

"You were right," Christine commented as the last strains of his voice faded. "That song is likely my favorite of the ones you've sung me today. It's even more beautiful than that _Santa Lucia_ song."

"I shall have to teach it to you. It's quite simple; you will catch on quickly. Or perhaps I should simply give you the score."

"I don't think you ever told me what it was called."

"It's known as 'Irish Blessing.'"

"May I have the score? Or…will you need it?"

"I memorized it long ago. I'll fetch the score from my archives."

Erik rose and strode to his musical library. Christine remained on the organ bench, once again looking through the music of _O Mio Babbino Caro_ and trying to memorize it. Or maybe he would let her keep that too.

"Here you are." He had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and was now standing beside her. She started.

"Erik! Don't sneak up on me that way!" Christine placed a hand over her heart in a lighthearted gesture of mock fear.

"I apologize," he responded, but Christine could see that he was battling a smile.

"Thank you," she unfolded her legs and alighted from the bench, standing before Erik to receive the score.

"You are welcome." He turned his head slightly to the side so he was not looking at her.

"You won't look at me?"

Erik's eyes warily found hers, but his head did not move.

_He's still afraid of me. It's as if we've switched positions! I have accepted him; can he not do the same for me?_

Taking him by the shoulders for balance, Christine stood on tiptoe and gently pressed her lips to Erik's unmasked cheek.

Almost roughly, he seized her by the arms and held her a good distance away from him. "_What_, may I ask, are you doing?" There was enough coldness in his tone to cause snow in August.

Mystified, Christine replied, "Thanking you."

"If my memory serves me, you already did that _verbally_." The iron hardness of his eyes almost made Christine flinch.

"Erik, I've kissed you before."

"Yes, and you needed 'God-given courage' to commit the act." His anger subsided without warning, his eyes now flickering with something like confusion. "You remember that?"

Christine found herself wondering if she had misheard him. "What…what do you mean, do I remember it? How could I have forgotten that?"

Erik looked slightly embarrassed; that is, if Erik was capable of being embarrassed. "I presumed that you…pretended…that I was the Chagny boy. How else you could stand it?"

"Erik…" Christine moved towards him again, but he held her off.

"Christine, I thought I asked that you not taunt me."

"I am not trying to taunt you, Erik, I'm trying to thank you." She tried to pull his hands away from her upper arms. He wasn't hurting her at all, but she still felt a bit rejected. _Now you have a faint idea of how Erik has felt his whole life_, a soft voice whispered darkly in the back of her mind.

"Verbal thanks will suffice." He suddenly tore his steely gaze away, so she could not see his face.

"I still don't understand…"

"Forgive me…I must…be alone for a few moments…" He pulled away from her and hastened toward his private chambers, ignoring the fact that Christine had called after him.

He shut the door so Christine would know not to intrude, at least for a while. _So she is certain I am not controlling her? She thinks I am incapable of noticing how she acted when I sang for her? I should not have sung for her. I should have known she is still susceptible…I should have known…_

Almost angrily, he ran his hand slowly though the flare of one of the black tapers that adorned his room. The flame burned the back of his hand slightly, and the pain jerked him back to reason. _Keep your wits about you, Erik! Christine was perfectly clearheaded while you sang to her…she is just showing her sympathy. She's not afraid anymore, that's all…_

An insistent pounding on the door made his head turn. "Erik, let me in!"

Holding back a smile at Christine's newfound fieriness, Erik obeyed her command.

"Please stop doing this. Don't run away from me."

"I know. I apologize." He brushed a single knuckle against Christine's cheek. She smiled almost shyly, her heart swelling with the knowledge that Erik was no longer felt himself unworthy of touching her. "I overreacted."

"It's all right." Struck by a sudden itch at the back of her neck, Christine reached over her shoulder, and Erik watched the beginnings of panic cross her face as she realized her necklace was gone. "Oh, no…Erik, that necklace you made me…" Her fingers scrabbled uselessly at her collarbone, searching frantically for something that wasn't there. "I could have _sworn_ I wore it last night…!"

"Calm yourself, angel. I have your necklace."

"But…how? Did it fall off?"

"No. I removed it last night." He retrieved the necklace from its hiding place.

"Why?"

"I didn't believe you should wear it…because I made it for you. I thought it would be best if you didn't have it."

"Have you changed your mind?" She rotated and lifted her hair from the nape of her neck, indicating that she wanted Erik to help her fasten the necklace.

"You might say that." He gently looped the silk braid around her neck and hooked the clasp into place.

"How come?" Christine released her dark mane, allowing it to fall back into place.

"Partly because of your insistence that I am not 'controlling' you at all, and partly because I spent quite a bit of time working on this necklace and it is good to finally see you wearing it."

"I'm glad you changed your mind. I don't know if I've ever had such a…special piece of jewelry." Christine laid her fingertips on the warm stone.

"Has no one ever made a piece of jewelry for you before?"

"No…but what I meant was…I can tell how much work this took." _How much work? No, I'm wrong, it's the emotion that was poured into this necklace. Even someone who does not know Erik at all could see what he feels for me by simply looking at this piece of jewelry that he made for me! Yet at the same time, I'm sure this perfect rose would be ugly and cold around any other woman's neck, because this necklace is for me and me alone. How can a mere man create something so incredible? _

"It did take quite a while. But a twenty-first birthday present merits quite an effort."

"Birthday present?" Christine reiterated, turning to face him.

"Well, yes. You will be twenty-one in forty-five days, yes?"

"Forty-five…" Christine did some quick mental counting. "Yes."

"This will be the first of your birthdays since your eighth one that I will not be able to wish you happy birthday or give you a proper gift. So perhaps you should consider that necklace your birthday present." _I know that once I am gone I will automatically continue to keep track of Christine's birthdays. Will I ever stop being constantly reminded of her? _

"But why can't you? You could still…send something, if you wanted…"

"All the way from America? It would arrive weeks after your birthday."

"Oh." _But I already told him I wanted him to stay…_ "Erik…please, don't leave Paris. I may be marrying Raoul, but can't I still see my teacher? Or maybe…take more lessons?"

_Stay in Paris. Continue teaching Christine, maybe to compose now that her performing is perfect. Christine, angel, I wish I could stay…_ "We have discussed this. It would be best if I left. I _want_ to stay here with you, I want to continue teaching you, but I fear that that boy of yours may be upset with you for keeping contact with me…I have already caused you enough trouble. I do not want to create a rift between you and your…future husband."

As much progress as Erik had made with accepting that Christine was not his, it was still difficult for him to speak of her marrying that pretentious Vicomte. Christine did not love him; very well. He was resigned to that. But to lose her to that otiose boy, the rich coddled spoiled nobleman who could care less about Christine's passion for music…all right, fine, Erik would admit that he treated her reasonably well, but what kind of life would Christine have with him? She would be catered to by servants and have all the luxuries that came with noble status (that is, if the Chagny parents did not disown their son for marrying a singer), but what of her soul? Her lovely, unsullied, lonely soul that needed such care—would it be healthy, living such a monotonous, unmusical life? _Any life Christine might have with the Vicomte is ten times better than any life you might offer her!_ The snide remark slithered into his mind, but he ignored it. Of course he was bitter; he hated that boy simply for his cavalier attitude towards Christine's love of music and, all too often, her thoughts and beliefs. And, oh yes, there was the fact the boy had made multiple attempts on Erik's life…that was a bit irritating.

"Raoul would understand," Christine insisted.

"Would he? All he knows about me is that I lied to you about being an Angel of Music and that I want to share my life with you. And he knows that I am a murderer; let's not forget that. I'm quite sure he still wants me dead. Would he truly understand if you wanted me to continue your lessons?"

Christine toyed gently with her necklace, looking down at it as she did so. "I suppose not."

"If I leave, it will alleviate the temptation for me to seek you out, and vice versa. It will also give you the chance to forget me, and it will give me the chance to come to grips with the fact that I lost you."

She laid her fingers softly on his arm. "Will you ever come to grips with that?"

He smiled mirthlessly at her. "Of course not. But I can try." He exhaled quickly as he placed his hand gingerly over hers. Christine remained still. _He found the courage to touch me again. At least once I'm gone, he can remember this…his last memories of me won't be of rejection and hatred._

"Erik?"

"Yes, angel?"

"How can you still love me? How can you still call me 'angel?'"

He met her eyes, and he appeared to be slightly taken aback. "Why would I have stopped loving you?"

"After what I did…what I said about you, what I said _to_ you, running from you so quickly, trying to have you shot and killed during _Don Juan_…I broke your heart, didn't I?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say you _broke_ my heart; it would be more accurate to say that you crushed it to pieces and then stepped on it." His levity made Christine's eyes begin to smolder with threatening tears. Was he so used to heartbreak that he could speak so casually of it?

"I _betrayed_ you, Erik! I almost killed you!"

Erik carelessly raised and lowered his shoulders. "Trifles. You must keep in mind, Christine, that most everyone I have met has wanted to kill me, or has tried. Also keep in mind that I nearly killed your lover."

"The people who have wanted to kill you…you didn't love any of them the way you love me," the singer noted quietly.

"No, that was a new…variable. But still, you would think I would be used to it."

Taking a step forward, Christine laid her forehead against Erik's shoulder. "I don't believe that any number of apologies could make up for the things I did to you," she stated miserably.

Erik tentatively stroked her hand. "Then do not apologize. I forgive you. Although in truth, I cannot forgive you, for I never blamed you for any of my recent hardships in the first place. I should be the one apologizing. You may have forgiven me for frightening you and kidnapping you, but I still lied to you. I claimed I was an angel when I was barely human. Had I never proliferated such a grave lie, none of these egregious things would have happened."

"Yes, and I never would have learned to sing. Erik, I wouldn't trade everything you taught me for all the gold in France. You didn't lie, anyway; even if you hadn't been sent directly from heaven, you were my Angel of Music." She pressed her face even closer against his upper arm, and gripped his other shoulder with the hand that had been resting on his forearm.

Christine was leaning fully against him; if he were to move away from the place where he stood, she would fall. But she would not embrace him, because she was afraid he would push her away…

_I will not push you away now, Christine, not when you need it_.

Carefully, considering the fact that he was so inexperienced in any act of affection, Erik circled her thin waist with one arm before caressingly draping his other arm over her shoulders. Smiling with something like relief, Christine locked her arms around his back as he pulled her close.

It was their first proper embrace, Christine realized. Similar things had happened earlier, but they were all much more one-sided. When Erik had held her as he sang to her the first night he had brought her to his home, and again during _Don Juan_, he had simply been embracing her from behind and she had not been able to return the gesture. He had embraced her from the front while they were hiding in the catacombs, but that was only to comfort her, and neither of them had really wrought any positive feelings from the unsettling situation. And when Christine had wrapped her arms around him yesterday while they were in the library, he had never returned the hug. But this time…this time they were both apologizing to and forgiving each other, and they needed this closeness equally.

Neither Erik nor Christine spoke; they remained silent and still, savoring their quiet, chaste intimacy. Erik ran his fingertips tenderly over Christine's shoulder blade, reveling in the gentle press of her cheek against his collarbone and the silky curls that brushed the underside of his chin. What felt twice as wonderful as Christine's presence in his arms, though, was the fact that she had wanted this embrace and was content because of it. Christine would have called "content" a slight understatement; Erik had a certain way of holding her that made her feel completely estranged from the outside world, concealed behind a comforting carapace that kept her safe from the troubles and trials of life. It was oddly relaxing, and she closed her eyes to further soak up the sensation of security, her eyelashes brushing against the material of his shirt. He was still so thin inside her embrace, but the arms that held her were tightly wired with muscle. Erik was strong, even if he appeared hungry and sick…_appearances are deceiving, always so deceiving_…

"I must get back to work if I am to complete that drawing you requested." His words clearly indicated that they should let go, but he did not release her.

Christine wanted very much to stay where she was, but they couldn't hold each other forever. "All right. May I look through your musical library while you work?"

"Certainly." Slowly, reluctantly, Erik let her go and pushed the door open to allow Christine to pass through. She did so, but waited for him afterward so they could walk side by side to their destinations.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Aw…yes, finally an E/C hug!

Try as I might, I couldn't find phonetic English lyrics for _Da Hai a Gu Xiang_. I still remember the song very well, so I used my survival Chinese book to puzzle out the correct Anglicized spellings of the words. I hope it's right. If it's wrong, please don't kill me. I also don't remember the second verse, because I never properly learned it. _sheepish laugh_

THE FREAKING PAGE BREAK IS STILL NOT WORKING. Sorry.

Musical term definitions:  
audiate: to sing a note in one's head without singing it aloud  
range: gamut of notes, from high to low, that a singer is capable of hitting; singers will often talk of their "high range" or "low range," speaking of how they can (or can't) hit certain notes in a high or low register (this writer is an alto, so her low range is much better than her high one)  
fermata: marking that indicates that a note should be held for longer than the value written in the music; found often in solos, to be cut off when the director indicates or when the performer feels like stopping  
rallentando: gradually slower


	7. Day Three Part Two

Three Days

Day Three: Comity  
Part Two

Summary: Slightly AU; what if Christine ran back to Erik as the mob approached, just to make sure he survived? And what if she stayed in Erik's kingdom of darkness for three days before returning to Raoul? ALW-based, with Kay influence because I FINALLY READ _PHANTOM_! w00t!

Disclaimer: If I owned _Phantom of the Opera_ and its many versions, Erik and Christine would have ended up together. So needless to say, I don't own any of them. (And if Kay's ending can be construed as Erik and Christine ending up together, I still don't own it.)

Pairings: Erik/Christine (doy)

Author's Notes: Um…hmm…wow, someone call the Vatican, I don't have any notes for this chapter!  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erik was still putting the finishing touches on the image of Christine. If he wanted to finish it in time, he should move on to the rest of the picture, but he could not work on anything but Christine until she was perfect.

It did help that his model was right next to him, though; Christine had been trawling through his musical archives, and had brought some of the pieces that she wanted to look at so she could sight-read them while sitting on the bench next to Erik. When he would glance over at her, she would be holding an open score and mouthing the words without making any sound. Sometimes she would get up and then return from the library with a short stack of books.

"You don't have to sit here if you don't wish to."

She glanced up. "I do wish to."

"Ah." He returned to his work. "Good; it helps to have you here while I am drawing you."

Christine nodded, and to Erik's surprise, she did not ask to see the picture. "When do you think it will be finished?" She indicated his drawing.

"Soon. I promise I will finish it before you leave. I've just begun drawing myself, as the image of you is finished."

"If you've only just finished drawing me, how can you finish the picture soon? Don't you still have to draw the pipe organ and yourself as well?"

Erik shrugged lightly. "Yes, but I always spend more time on you than anything else in a drawing."

Christine had already discovered that. "All right. And…thank you for drawing this for me."

"It's no trouble."

For the remainder of the afternoon, Erik continued laboring over Christine's illustration. He stopped only when Christine remarked that she was hungry; he laid down his charcoal and went with Christine to the kitchen to prepare dinner for them both. Erik ate about a third as much as Christine did, and she continued shooting him disapproving glances until he explained to her that if he ate too much, he might very well die. After that, she seemed very subdued, and sat still and quiet while she drank the tea that Erik had made for her. (It was one of his favorite recipes from China.) When Erik asked her what was wrong, she replied that his frailty worried her; she seemed a bit reassured when he renewed his promise to continue eating until he was healthy again.

After dinner, Erik and Christine paid another visit to Shadow, Cloak, Smoke, and New Moon (the flightless bat again seemed glad to see Christine) and returned to their previous activities. Christine was in the middle of reading a history of Persia when Erik finished the drawing. He lightly (very lightly) touched her forearm to gain her attention. "It's done."

She glanced at him as he laid the finished picture before her. With an air of something like reverence, she lifted it up and gazed at it.

Erik's previous work was exquisite, yet somehow this drawing seemed even more magnificent than the previous ones. Perhaps it was because Christine had requested it. But for whatever reason, Christine could not wrench her eyes away from this new creation. Her own face in the picture shone with exuberance, and her pose was one of radiant confidence. It was manifest that she was singing; her lips were parted in song, and she was standing resolutely in singer's stance. Beside her, Erik thundered away at the organ, watching her almost reverentially as she sang. The unmasked side of his face was visible as he turned to face her, and this time he had drawn himself accurately without purposely making himself unattractive. _If he hadn't been born with his deformity_, Christine realized suddenly, _he would have been handsome…_

"It's wonderful, Erik, thank you." She scanned it again, and realized that something was missing. "Did you sign it?"

"No…I didn't. Would you like me to sign it?"

"Please."

She handed him the paper, and he briefly scrawled his name and the date in the bottom right-hand corner. "Here you are."

"Thank you. I'll make sure to keep this safe until I leave."

It was only after Christine had run off to place the picture in one of her saddlebags that Erik noticed it…

Resting on one of the smooth ivory keys of the organ was an eyelash that could have only belonged to Christine. It was over a centimeter long and jet-black, curling slightly into a thin dark curve.

Erik lifted the fallen lash with one fingertip. _After Christine leaves, I am sure that it won't be long until I lose whatever sanity I have left. In the depths of my madness, I'll likely wonder if she were ever real, or perhaps just another one of my hallucinations. But perhaps if I kept her eyelash in a phial, it might be physical proof that she did indeed exist_…

It seemed a reasonable enough idea at first, but something made him hesitate. Most people would have called keeping Christine's eyelash obsessive, bizarre, even disgusting. Erik did not know this, but he did know that saving the eyelash would be wrong. He turned his hand over and let the little half-curl fall to the floor.

Erik had a question for his adored student once she had returned to his side.

"Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Will you please be cautious about keeping that picture away from Monsieur deChagny? I am aware that it is ordinarily wrong to keep secrets from one's spouse, but I believe this is not an ordinary situation."

"I understand. I will. I don't mind keeping that picture a secret…I would think that Raoul would want me to forget about you once I return to him."

"What will you say to him?" Erik dipped his quill into an inkwell.

"About what?"

"About your time here. You may have a difficult time explaining that I did not torture you or rape you."

She chewed her thumbnail. "I will just tell him the truth. You treated me well. I…I rather enjoyed my stay here."

Erik snickered rather mordantly. "You had best not say that. He will think it is a lie. Saying I treated you well might work, though I'm not positive your boy believes I am capable of human decency."

"Well then, I'll tell him that he doesn't know you like I do," Christine declared. "That's true enough."

He paused contemplatively. "It is…quite true. Oh, and make sure to insist that I fed you properly."

"I will." Christine smiled dismally. "Raoul is so convinced that there is nothing good about you…he had me convinced as well. But I'll get through to him somehow."

"I do hope so. I have no wish to cause dissent." Erik bent again over the song that he was writing for her, moderately surprised that Christine had not inquired about it or tried to steal a look at the page.

"You won't. I know the truth about you…I can make Raoul believe it too, I know I can."

"And what of the heirs to the Chagny line? Are your children to know about me too? Perhaps in the form of a bedtime fairy tale, one of those classic stories in which a dragon spirits away a beautiful maiden?"

Christine replied firmly, "My children will know the truth about you as well. And I'll make sure their father has no intention of blackening your name. They will know you as their mother's devoted voice teacher."

The lonesome melancholy of Erik's soul warmed slightly at Christine's dedication. She would make sure that his name did not live on as that of a monster…that was something that he wouldn't have dared to hope after the night of _Don Juan_. Satisfied, he turned his attention fully to his farewell ballad for Christine.

Erik could have claimed that the song was finished; he had already established the tune, and the lyrics were complete. But the song was not perfect yet. It was the lyrics…he was content with the tune of the piece, but the words were still plaguing him. It was difficult to express his rather complex feelings in the lines without conveying the wrong mood, or without damaging the delicate structure of the piece. Never had a single song vexed him so deeply, or given him such trouble. He had had trouble finding proper combinations of songs for an opera, but the songs themselves had always come easily. His difficulty was not frustrating him; rather, it acted as an incentive to keep working, to perfect the composition until it was worthy of performance before his angel.

Unaware of his quandary, Christine continued to read quietly at Erik's side. She noticed that he leaned so far over his work that his nose almost touched the page, though, and was certain that it would be unwise to interrupt. So she remained seated close to him, reading, occasionally cutting her eyes in his direction, admiring the intensity with which he devoted himself to his work and wondering why a single song exacted so much of his attention.

Ayesha seemed to wonder the same thing, for she came to Erik's side and meowed adamantly many times. Each time, Erik ignored her for a minute or so and then reached down and scratched her ears to appease her. The last few times Ayesha showed up, Christine scratched her, allowing Erik to remain undistracted. She quickly discovered that Ayesha adored being petted just behind her left ear; the little cat enjoyed the scratching so that she leaned into Christine's hand until she fell over, and then proceeded to wrap her paws around Christine's wrist. Ayesha was beginning to believe that this strange girl her master so deeply cared for truly did have a purpose. At least, she was good enough to scratch Ayesha's favorite spot.

Christine had just finished petting Ayesha (who was now preening regally after her unbecoming roll on the floor) when Erik sat back from his work and made a sound of relief, or pride.

"Finished?" Christine queried, walking to stand behind him and place a hand on his shoulder.

"Finally." Erik lifted the single sheet of parchment and studied it with a kind of exhausted satisfaction.

"Would you please sing it for me?" _Then I'll finally know what the piece that so consumed him was really like…_

"Perhaps…" His voice trailed vaguely off before a large hourglass that rested on a small stand beside the organ abruptly seized his attention. "Oh, hell, is it that late already? And I never gave you any supper…" All too late, Erik realized that he had cursed in front of Christine. "I…apologize for my language."

"Yes, you'd do bloody well to watch your mouth," Christine retorted almost playfully.

"_I _should watch my mouth!" Erik raised his eyebrows in a mock-scandalized expression. "Well, I suppose I can't expect your vocabulary to remain unscathed after so many years in the ballet corps."

Christine giggled. "Well, it's all right that I didn't eat any supper…I wasn't very hungry. _You_ should have eaten, though."

"I had to work on your song without interruption; inspiration for a song's lyric is more delicate than that for a drawing."

She nodded with grudging understanding in response.

"You should sleep soon," said Erik, his tone suddenly immensely grave. Christine realized with a sickening lurch of her stomach that after she woke the next morning, she would leave for Raoul's manor, and soon afterward Erik would depart for America. _I don't want to be separated from him!_ She thought almost frantically. _At least, I don't want us to be an ocean apart…I still think it's unnecessary._

"It isn't that late," the soprano protested, but a yawn soon gave her away.

"You need your sleep, angel. If you return to your boy tomorrow looking wan and exhausted, he will think I have mistreated you—regardless of what you say—and send the police here to kill me." He made a quite valiant attempt at sounding practical and calm, but Christine knew better. He was thinking of how it would be a matter of hours before she was lost to him forever. Her throat tightened with sympathy—but was it only sympathy? She would miss him as well, even though she would have her kind, safe Raoul…did that mean that her feelings went beyond the pathetic boundaries of pity and ruth?

"Will you sing me to sleep, then? Please?" Christine wanted to hear him sing again before she left. She did love to hear him sing…

"If you wish," he answered her gently. "Perhaps you should return to your quarters and change into something more suitable for sleeping. I shall be along shortly."

She nodded, her heart thudding away painfully inside her ribcage. Why was it suddenly so difficult to fathom leaving Erik forever? A week ago, she would have prayed for such permanent separation! What had changed?

Christine was still attempting to answer that question as she made for her bedroom and changed again into the lilac dressing gown that she had discovered in the bathroom. She'd only worn it one night, after all, and it was a gift from Erik.

"Christine?" Erik addressed her from behind the silver curtains. "Are you decent?"

"I am!" she called, climbing onto her bed.

He must have brushed the curtains aside, but he seemed to move through them as if he were non-corporeal. _Well, he was known as the 'Phantom of the Opera,' I'm sure he's had quite a bit of practice acting like a ghost._

"You wish for me to sing for you?" He seemed every inch the perfect gentleman as he knelt gracefully at her bedside, resting his hands on the slick black surface of the swan. Suddenly Christine wondered where he had obtained the impeccable manners of a member of the noble class—without the pretentious and turgid air, that is.

Christine was sitting upright, and she leaned over to rest her fingertips on the back of Erik's hand. He shot her a startled look, but did not pull away. "Please."

"Very well. What do you wish to hear? More folk songs?"

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. There was one thing she had wanted to hear him sing for quite a long time now…but she was not sure if he would be willing. "Actually, I was wondering if you could sing that song that you sang to me when you brought me here the first time…the one about the music of the night?"

"Ah, yes…I still have a bit of trouble believing that it took me half as long to write that particular piece as it did to write the one I finished just a few minutes ago."

"So will you sing it for me?"

Erik exhaled slowly. "I wrote that song as a sort of welcome for you…and also to declare how deeply I cared for you. Are you sure you are comfortable hearing it?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Very well." Christine barely saw his chest rise lightly as he inhaled to begin the song. "_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses…_"

Christine's heart raced with the abrupt flood of memories that filled her mind from the night she had first seen Erik's home. She remembered him singing those exact words as she still sat in the gondola, then he reached down to take her hand and lead her onto shore.

"_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light…and listen to the music of the night!_"

He had begun singing almost cautiously, still hesitant to serenade Christine with such an emotional song at such a time, but any hesitance was gone from his voice now. In the throes of song, Erik found himself unable to restrain or quell his emotions, and Christine could tell.

"_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams! Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before! Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar…_"

Just like last time, Christine felt her eyelids drop to a closed position as she savored the ring of Erik's voice as he held the note and then let it slowly drift into nonexistence. It was a high note for a man, but he made it sound so easy…

"…_and you'll live as you've never lived before!_"

Christine opened her eyes once more, but listened just as intently.

"_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you…_"

She trembled lightly, her skin crawling pleasantly like it had when Erik had played his requiem for her. Could music truly caress her body? It certainly felt possible…!

"_Open up your mind! Let your fantasies unwind in this darkness that you know you cannot fight…the darkness of the music of the night!_"

Erik felt Christine's hand's tighten around his; her skin had grown extremely warm, and her fingers were shaking a little, but not with trepidation. He saw that her eyes were glazed and distant, her chest heaving as if she had forgotten how to breathe. He knew he should stop singing and let Christine recover, but his voice was drunk on its own power and continued.

"_Let your mind start a journey to a through a strange new world! Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before! Let your soul take you where you long to be!"_

How could it be that Christine's glassy eyes were boring into his? Was she under the spell of the song and yet still remembering exactly what had happened the first time she had heard this tune? Or was she only acting, and somehow was unable to do it perfectly?

"_Only then can you belong to me…_"

Christine's heart pounded even more fiercely, if that were possible. Was Erik going to touch her again? Or did he still not have the courage?

Her question was answered by the soft brush of his hand against the line of her jaw, then her cheek.

"_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication…touch me, trust me, savor each sensation…_"

Eyes closed once more, Christine turned her head into Erik's palm, feeling her skin tingle where his thumb stroked her. She still clung to his other wrist, as if warning him that she was dreading the time when his hand would fall away.

"_Let the dream begin! Let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write…the power of the music of the night!_"

Erik did not move his hand from Christine's cheek, but he did turn it to caress her warm skin with his knuckles. Her lips curled into a blissful smile, and Erik could only pray that the expression was genuine.

"_You alone can make my song take flight…help me make the music of the night._"

Erik used the full (and considerable) capacity of his lungs to sustain the note for as long as he could, watching Christine's delighted expression as his hand slid from her cheek to the graceful curve of her neck.

When Christine heard the last strains of Erik's voice die, she opened her eyes and placed one palm over the hand that now rested on her shoulder. She did not know what to say, for she still had not devised her own word to use instead of "beautiful" when describing something Erik had fashioned or composed.

Erik's hand seared where he had touched Christine. Two conflicting instincts screamed at him both to remove his touch from Christine's shoulder and to keep it there; he chose to follow the latter, partly because she was restraining his hand where it was.

"I hope you are disregarding the lyrics."

Christine's heart sank. Erik had quite obviously poured his soul into the song, and still meant every single word…but of course, he wanted her to ignore this, because she was leaving for good the next morning. She felt a horrible lurch within her as she imagined what Raoul would say if he could have seen what had just happened.

"I…suppose I should, if you want me to."

"I should have refused to sing that to you." Erik set his jaw.

"No! No…I wanted to hear it. It's a magnificent song, even if…I must…ignore what it says now. Even if it's still true."

"Well, just because I know I've lost you doesn't mean I no longer want you with me."

Christine hung her head, unsure of what to say.

"It's all right, Christine." He pressed his hand to her cheek again, and she smiled. "This is your last night here. Shall we not waste it on this anxiety?"

She nodded affirmatively, using her own hand to keep his palm against her skin. "Could you sing your new piece for me now? The one you just finished?"

"I did write it as a farewell song to you…" Erik mused aloud.

"Then will you sing it for me?"

"Why not? I suppose it is fitting…first I sing you what I wrote for the first time I would see you in person, now I can sing you something meant for the last time I see you in person."

"Do you need to get the score? Or do you remember it?" Christine halted, remembering to whom she was speaking. "I'm sorry…of course you remember it."

A very modestly sized smile appeared on Erik's face. "Yes, I do."

Christine's eyes met his as Erik began singing the piece that had taken him so long to perfect.

"_My angel, you lie imprisoned in the pits of hell, patiently, silently awaiting your freedom. My seraph, you'll have many horror tales to tell upon returning to the sunlit world_."

Christine swallowed laboriously, very much aware of Erik's disdain for his own life and lifestyle compared to hers. Such a difference from the mood if _Music of the Night…_

"_Now, I implore you, I ask you not to move the earth; hopefully, sincerely, Christine I beg of you…quite soon, I know you will long to forget, upon returning to the living world. Let the memories remain with you, let the fallen angel's music still carry you, let every small recollection remain pure and true…erase not this time, remember it."  
_  
Christine was touched at both the simplicity and the tenderness of the request. _So that's all he wants from me? Just to remember the time I spent here?_

"_My angel, you stay quiet in the face of terror, tranquilly, fearlessly enduring this ordeal._

_My seraph, do not feel any shame or dishonor upon your exodus from this hellish realm. Now, I entreat you, no behemoth should you slay; pensively, artlessly, Christine I beseech you…quite soon, I know you will long to forget, upon your exodus to the waking world._"

She squeezed his hand. This song did not have the same entrancing effect on her that _Music of the Night_ did; rather, it stirred her emotions deeply, as if the music pierced her very psyche with its heartfelt appeal.

"_Let the memories remain with you, let the fallen angel's music still carry you, let every small recollection remain pure and true…erase not this time, remember it."_ Before singing the last line, Erik brought his other hand to Christine's face and began stroking her hair. The resigned, imploring glow in his golden eyes sent a painful shot like a spear thrust through her chest. "_Forget not your guide…remember me._"

She turned her face into the hand that still cupped her cheek, the backs of her eyes stinging. _Raoul asks me to love him. Three days ago, Erik asked me the same thing…but now all that he wants is for me to remember him? "Love me…" a luxury of a behest, one most people only ask when they know the answer will be yes. "Remember me…" barely a request at all! Erik knows that I will not forget him…_

"Christine?" _What have I done now? _Erik thought bitterly. _Can I not even sing to her without wounding her feelings?_ "I am sorry if I offended you…"

"Offended me!" Christine laughed acidly, a single tear escaping the corner of one eye. "Erik, you think I could possibly be offended by that song? Such a simple request?" Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck as tightly as she could, so he could not move away from her. "It doesn't matter what you say; I refuse to disregard the lyrics of that one!"

Startled, Erik returned Christine's hug, relieved that she had acceded to his requisition. It wasn't so exacting, was it? Just that she remember the time she had spent with him?

Christine's body began to relax as Erik's hand trailed lightly up and down her spine. Though she had tried to battle it, she _was_ tired, so she lay back on the covers. She still wrapped the fingers of her right hand around one of Erik's wrists even as she broke their embrace. "Erik, will you stay with me until I fall asleep? And will you stay after I'm asleep, too?"

"I should not stay after you sleep, Christine. Isn't that intruding on your privacy?"

"Not if I _ask_ you to stay."

Erik considered. This would be his last night with Christine, and he wanted to be near her as much as possible. And if she wanted him to stay…

"Very well."

She smiled drowsily. "Thank you."

His hand still shaking slightly with doubt, Erik reached over to trace the soft curve where Christine's skull rounded into her neck.

She shut her eyes and began contemplating as Erik's hand moved delicately over her scalp, then fell away.

_Should I be glad that I am leaving Erik soon? Should I be happy that I'll never see him again? I remember how I used to long so desperately for permanent separation…I remember wishing Erik were dead…_ A surge of guilt washed over Christine as this thought crossed her mind, magnified by the warmth of Erik's hands wrapped around hers. _I judged him so quickly after I saw the stagehand die. After Erik was my devoted teacher for…how many years? Thirteen, I think…I still panicked and ran to my childhood sweetheart. I still love Raoul, of course, my friend, my protector, my safe harbor in a storm. But Erik wished to protect me as well; if I had only asked him, I would have discovered that Buquet was killed in one of the traps that keep Erik's home secure! Then Erik used Buquet to punish the managers for ignoring me, because he knew how I badly wanted to sing. What was I thinking—that Erik would hurt me as well? What in God's name was I thinking?_

"Christine?" Her eyes flew open in surprise as Erik addressed her.

"Yes?"

"You seem restless. Is my presence making you uncomfortable?"

"No, Erik, it isn't you! I was just…thinking." She squeezed his hand reassuringly, and he ran his thumb lightly over her forearm.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she insisted.

"Very well…should I sing to you again? Would that help you relax?"

"Yes, please! Could you sing me that Irish Blessing?"

He smiled down at her. "Of course, angel."

Christine returned to her musings as the familiar, soothing strains of Erik's voice singing the beautiful well-wishing song filled her ears.

_Such a lovely song…I'm sure he has many more to teach me. At least I can remember these songs once I'm gone. I do wish he could stay in Paris, but he's right about maybe causing problems between Raoul and me by staying. But I will miss him…and to think I hated him a few days ago!_ She paused in her reflection to listen to the last few lines of the Irish Blessing: "_Until we meet again, we meet again, may God hold you in his hand._"

_I can still hardly believe that this Erik is the same man who threatened to hang Raoul if I did not choose to stay with him. He was going insane then, I know…but the madman I saw that night is not the real Erik. Erik loves me; he would never hurt me, not when he is in his right mind…and even when he was going mad that night, he said that he would not harm me. I was so terrified…no, I was not frightened anymore. I just hated him. But God…in retrospect, how could he have not been driven round the twist by the things that happened? He was my teacher, my guide, my guardian, and my protector for so long, and then he suddenly discovered that I hated him. Not only that; when he made a last plea for my love and my company, I was trying to get him shot like a dog in the street. And after he had been through such horror before he even came to this opera house…no man can go through that much. It's a miracle he can still love me, it really is; what other man on this earth could still love a woman after she tries to have him murdered?_

Christine's exhaustion began to set in fully, augmented by the fact that Erik had been singing to her in order to help her relax. As the cool, gentle shadow of sleep began to overtake her, she heard Erik whisper, "Goodnight, my angel."  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Blackness.

There was blackness everywhere. It spilled from the air into her consciousness and seeped through her mind. She blinked frantically, as if there were a coating of pitch or tar over her eyes and it needed to be cleared. But there was nothing there…nothing but complete and utter darkness, no shadows, no lines, no sound.

Was this some sort of horrible prison? Where was she?

Christine dropped to her hands and knees, pressing her palms against the cold floor. It felt terribly smooth and artificial, slick and glassy. Did this place have corners? Was she trapped in a massive black box?

A frightened cry escaped her mouth, and to her relief, the sound was audible, even if the viscous black emptiness swallowed it immediately.

A figure stepped into the air before her, seemingly ghosting through a wall. He stood before her and queried softly, "What are you doing, Christine?"

"Erik!" In one swift, desperate motion, Christine stood and threw her arms around him. He did not hesitate or stiffen in surprise; instead, he simply returned her tight embrace.

"You must be careful not to get separated from me like that, Christine."

"I won't!" Christine swore. "I won't. I won't be separated from you again!"

"Oh, really?" His voice was chilly and slack.

Startled, Christine replied fervently, "Yes! I promise!"

He broke away from her and glared icily at her, his expression calculating and suspicious. "You are lying."

"No! I'm not lying…I wouldn't lie to you…"

"Wouldn't you?" Erik spat. "How can you claim that we will never again be separated when I am about to lose you _forever_?"

Christine was stunned, but her terror increased a hundredfold when the horrid blackness seemed to leach forward and begin to wrap itself around Erik. He seemed unconcerned; indeed, he stepped backward further into the darkness's greedy grasp.

"I don't want us to be separated!" Christine's voice rose to what was nearly a howl. "I want to stay with you! I want _you_ to stay!"

Erik was already gone, completely merged into the oozing black creature behind him. All that remained was the half-hurt, half-frosty glow of his yellow eyes. "It's a bit late for that, isn't it, _angel_?"

"No!" Christine shouted. She was alone again, alone with this creeping, menacing darkness that surrounded her, and might devour her as well at any second. "Erik!" she cried desperately, but she knew it was hopeless…her voice came out choked and barely comprehensible. Closing her eyes numbly and pressing her chin to her chest, she tried, "Is anyone there?" She did not expect an answer, but her half-shout was answered.

"Christine? Little Lotte?" The voice seemed to come from above her.

Her head jerked upwards. "Raoul?"

"Where are you?" Now the call sounded from her left. She whirled to try and follow it, but she saw no one, only the looming nothingness of her surroundings. She lost her footing and fell, tumbling to the sickeningly smooth ground. Her body twisted helplessly, as the lubricious floor offered no traction, and she yelled out again.

"Raoul, he's gone! I pushed him away…I need you! Help me find him!"

"Christine?"

She shivered; Raoul's voice was ricocheting from wall to wall, so she had no idea from where it originated.

"Christine?" This time, the single word sounded hesitant, half-silenced, the tone most people use when they have called someone and heard no answer, and were now leaving.

"Raoul, please! I need your help! Raoul! _Raoul_!"  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erik noticed that Christine had fallen victim to another bad dream the second he felt her hands tense, and he looked up to see that her eyes were tightly squeezed shut and she was biting her lip. He reached over to stroke her hair, because she always found that so soothing, but it had no effect this time. Her breath came faster, and her lips moved as if to shout, but she made no sound.

"Angel…calm down…" Erik ran his hand over her scalp, but she was so deeply entrenched in her nightmare that she felt nothing.

When she did cry out, the sound startled him. "Raoul!" She screamed once, then whimpered softly. Her hands had clenched into little fists so tight that Erik wondered if her nails were cutting into her palms.

Erik stepped back from her, grim-faced. If she was calling for her lover, then that was a bad sign…_I should not wake her. She may have more sympathy for me now, but apparently her fear of me still exists in her subconscious. I wonder if there is anything I can do to calm her without waking her…_ Erik's nimble mind turned quickly to Christine's father's violin; if anything could soothe her, the sound of a violin would be it. _I will use one of my own violins. I am sure that Christine would want no one but her father playing that violin._

With the quicksilver speed that he had possessed his whole life, Erik slipped into his musical library—he kept his instruments there as well as his scores. He retrieved one of his few violins, selecting the one that would likely sound the most similar to Gustave Daaé's. He hurried back to Christine's bedside; the nightmare had not woken her yet, and she was twitching slightly, occasionally uttering a short wordless cry.

Wrenching his eyes from the distraught young woman's form, Erik lifted the violin to his chin and played. He had chosen _Angel of Music_, which he knew was Christine's favorite song that her father had played for her. As the sweet recognizable notes of the song drifted through the air, Christine's eyelids fluttered gently, and her expression relaxed. Her hands unclenched and she lay still, smiling once more.

The tune over, Erik lowered his violin. _It would be better if I left her alone now. If she wakes, she will not see me…that may be some comfort to her. I don't want her to spend her last night here having nightmares and being anxious._

Erik returned the violin to its proper place and retreated into the catacombs, sitting torpidly on a cold stone bench and holding Christine's final rose against his cheek.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ayesha had been skulking silently around Christine's bedchambers when Erik had sung her to sleep, when the nightmare had begun, and when Erik played his violin to calm her. Now the clever little Siamese watched as Erik left the soaring caverns of his home for the small, damp tunnels where Ayesha liked to hunt rats and mice.

The cat did not know what Christine had done to upset Erik, but her feline brain did grasp that her human (Erik, of course) was more distressed than he pretended to be over what had happened that night—and somehow, it was Christine's fault.

And no one wounded the feelings of Ayesha's human and got away with it. Ayesha had made up her mind that the human girl who was good at ear-scratching would be shown what she'd done!  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erik was not surprised when Ayesha followed him into the narrow channels that branched off from his home; Ayesha was very sensitive to his feelings, and would always comfort him when she felt that something was wrong. The previous night, she had slept in Erik's coffin (on his feet, to be specific) because she had sensed his anguish. What surprised Erik was the fact that Ayesha did not stop to rub her flank against him or purr reassuringly; she took Christine's rose in her teeth and ran off with it. Deciding that Ayesha was using her own method of getting him to pay attention to her instead of Christine, Erik did not pursue his cat.

Christine was also a bit astonished when Ayesha leapt onto her stomach, bearing the rose in her mouth. "Ayesha, what's this?" She took the bloom from the svelte animal, fingering the silky black ribbon around the stem. "Did Erik want you to give me this?"

_Erik! Where is he? I asked him to stay with me while I slept._

"Where is he, Ayesha?" Christine briefly felt remarkably stupid; how was Ayesha to understand human speech? But the little cat leapt off Christine's bed, meowing impatiently back at her, as if saying, _Will you hurry up, human!_

Christine hurried up.

Ayesha led her to the catacombs, more specifically the chamber where Erik sat.

"Erik? What are you doing? I thought I asked you to stay with me." Christine slid onto the bench beside him, clutching the thornless rose to her heart.

"I heard you cry out during your nightmare." The sound of his voice almost made Christine recoil; he sounded as if he had been assaulted by some soul-sucking monster that stole his capability for emotion. "I decided that it might be more comforting for you to wake up without me there."

"Quite the opposite!" Christine countered. "I dreamed that…that I said I didn't want to be separated from you, and you said I was lying, and you left me alone…I heard Raoul's voice, so I called for him to help me find you."

He had been seated in a corner, with his forehead pressed to the wall. Now he turned his head to meet her eyes, as she perched on the bench behind him. "So I did in reality exactly what I did in your nightmare."

"Nearly."

Erik sighed, seeming to deflate as he did so. "I am sorry, Christine. It seems that I can never do what is in your best interests…and it is certainly not for a lack of trying."

She leaned against his back, hoping that he would find the close warmth of her body comforting. "It's all right…that was you playing the violin, wasn't it?"

"Yes. It was."

"I didn't know you were a violinist, Erik. Do you play every instrument on this earth and I just don't know about it?"

"I'm afraid not. I only play violin and organ—or piano, of course."

"Thank you. The sound of the violin…helped me calm down."

"I thought it might."

"Erik, you aren't going to stay here all night, are you?" Christine laid her hand on Erik's thin, wiry arm, and he shuddered.

"I was planning to." His voice was deceptively level.

"Come stay with me. Please."

"If I agree, will you _stop that_?"

Christine had been running her hand over his shoulder. She pulled her fingers away immediately, embarrassed that she'd forgotten how unused Erik was to human contact.

"You should get back to sleep, Christine. The later you return, the harder it will be for you to dissuade that boy of yours from trying to kill me again."

Standing up, she responded, "Then come with me."

"Very well."

Erik rose to his feet, and he and Christine walked together back to Christine's bedchambers, with Ayesha trotting along primly beside them.

Christine again buried herself under the crimson covers, and Erik knelt by her bedside. Christine took her teacher's hands again, suddenly struck by how uncomfortable it would be for him to kneel on the hard floor all night.

"Erik, if it's too uncomfortable to stay on the floor like that, you could lie beside me, if you want."

Erik's head snapped up at the innocent suggestion, his expression one of something like horror. "Christine, please do me a favor and _think_ of what you are about to say before you say it."

"I meant it chastely," Christine protested.

"I know. Still, it is already improper for me to even be in your quarters while you sleep."

Christine slid off her bed to sit on the floor beside Erik. "It's my last night here, so I wanted you nearby. But I just thought it was rather selfish of me to ask you to stay if you'll have to sit on the floor."

"I do not mind being on the floor," Erik replied stiffly.

"Erik…" She chewed her lower lip. "Do you remember when I was younger, sleeping in the ballet dormitories, and I would sleep in the same bed with Meg?"

"Yes, I remember. I would come to the dormitories to sing to you and your bunk would be empty."

"I don't like sleeping alone," Christine confessed. "Before my father died, he used to stay with me while I slept. I think my mother did too, when I was very small, but I have trouble remembering that far back. That's why I'd sleep in the same bed with Meg when I was young. When we grew older, though, there was not enough room in our little bunks for more than one person."

At this point, the only thing Erik could think of to say was: "Christine, you are _engaged_."

"Raoul won't find out. And I don't know if I _can_ sleep now, thinking about you on the cold floor. And besides…haven't you always slept alone? Isn't it lonely?"

Erik avoided Christine's eyes. "It is lonely. But I am used to loneliness by now."

"You said you wanted me to stay here for three days so you'd know what it was like to have my company. If this weren't for only three days, you wouldn't have any qualms about holding me while I slept."

"But you are leaving tomorrow, and you are getting married soon. If you do not want to sleep alone, Ayesha can keep you company. She seems to have gotten used to you since you learned that she like to have her ears scratched." For Erik, refusing Christine's kind offer was a struggle; of course he _wanted_ to hold Christine, but at the same time, it would be a disgusting invasion of her privacy.

Christine did not know of his indecision, but she did know that she was through pleading. "If you refuse to lie next to me, then I will go sleep in your coffin."

"_Christine_!" Erik shouted, shocked by her brashness. It wasn't like her to make threats…well, except to slap him if he called himself a monster, that is. "I refuse to allow you to sleep in a coffin. You're a living, breathing young woman. You will stay in your ordinary bed."

"You sleep in that coffin even though you're alive!" Christine shot back. "I can't stand picturing you lying in that box or kneeling on this floor while I curl up under silk sheets. If you keep insisting on sitting here, then I _will _go sleep in your coffin. I'll slap you again to get past you if need be."

"What if I were to lock the door to my chambers? What would you do then?"

"I'd sleep on the floor outside the door," she declared, fierce as a general waging war. "Erik, this is ridiculous. I know you respect my privacy, and I appreciate it. But what kind of a student would I be if I made my teacher kneel on a hard stone floor all night?"

Erik was stunned. His little angel (little? She was certainly behaving like a grown woman now) had just won the argument. And Erik did not often lose arguments.

"Christine, you cheeky little wench!" He burst out laughing, aware of how ludicrous the situation had become. "I must have taught you much more than how to sing!"

"You did," Christine agreed, folding her arms over her chest.

"Very well. I will sleep next to you. Satisfied, my little tigress?"

"Yes."

Christine crawled back into bed. She was new at this being assertive; she may have won the argument, but she still found it a bit exhausting, especially when she was already tired.

Erik was sitting upright on the very edge of Christine's bed, his every muscle taut with something like dread. He half-looked as if he were made of wood.

Christine, who now lay on her side, looked up at him with her angelic sepia-colored eyes. "Erik, it's all right. Come here and hold me."

Wordlessly, Erik obeyed her, lying down rigidly and somehow managing not to flinch when she curled up beside him with one arm draped over his shoulder blades.

_Before _Don Juan_, he was never this…uneasy about embracing me. On some level, is he still afraid that I hate him? Does he worry that this could be another trap, or that I'm just taunting him like a cat playing with a mouse? _Christine repressed a shiver, thinking of some of the things she had said to Erik, or about him: "He kills without a thought, he murders all that's good…it's in your soul that the true distortion lies…the tears I might have shed for your dark fate grow cold and turn to tears of hate…" Was it any wonder that he still refused to embrace her, as if he were afraid that she would tear loose from his arms and begin screaming those terrible things again?

"Erik, just hold me. Please?" She moved her small, warm hand over Erik's back, her stomach churning as she felt the raised scar tissue through the fabric of his shirt. "It's all right."

It was only then that Erik finally gave in to instinct and wrapped both arms tightly around Christine's little back. She sighed in relief and pressed her cheek to his beating heart as she felt him relax.

"Christine…" Her name slipped past his lips like a prayer.

"Thank you," she whispered faintly, unsure if she were speaking to Erik or to whatever higher power had given him the courage to hold her.

"Christine, forgive me…"

"Forgive you?" she echoed, startled. "For what?"

"Everything." Erik tucked Christine's head under her chin and ran his hand almost feverishly through her beautiful soft curls. All through these three days when she had stayed with him, he had managed to keep his emotions mostly in check, but having her this close was too much.

"Erik…I have forgiven you. I understand."

"I almost killed that boy of yours…that is unforgivable…"

"He almost killed you as well! At the cemetery, at the masquerade ball, _Don Juan_…I should be the one apologizing." She could hear his heart pounding like a war drum.

"You know I do not blame you, angel."

"I don't blame you anymore, either." She wrapped her fingers around the loose material of Erik's shirt, still keeping her arm across his back.

"Christine, I love you." The words escaped before Erik could stop himself.

"My Angel of Music…" she murmured softly. "Erik, you were my Angel, and I took your care and protection for granted. I'm sorry."

Erik let out a slow, shuddering breath, attempting to calm himself. "I do believe we should both stop apologizing now."

Christine smiled. "All right."

Erik had to close his eyes in order to fully take in all the sensations that their embrace provided. Christine's breathing lightly fluttered his shirt collar, the flawless, adorable profile of her face was pressed into his chest, her warm little hands were clutching at his shirt, and her heart was beating softly and rhythmically against his. He gave a slow caress to Christine's back, sensing the geometry of her ribs and faint curve of her spine beneath his hand.

Christine remembered how cold Erik's touch had been when he first brought her to his home, how she'd felt as if the hands that so tenderly stroked her body were coated in ice. It was different now: Erik's warmth was a welcome comfort against the coolness of the air. Almost thoughtlessly, Christine reached to pull the sheets over them; most of her attention was focused on the gentle hand that moved soothingly over her back.

As Christine drifted peacefully into slumber, Erik found himself reviewing the past few days in his mind, and thinking of how many problems had been caused by nightmares. First there was Christine's nightmare when they were hiding in the catacombs, then again that same night when she had been feverish. Erik had had his own nightmare last night, of his doppelganger strangling Christine (that particular memory made Erik involuntarily tighten his arms around Christine's body). And finally, there was Christine's dream only a few minutes ago that had driven him from her bedside…even if that nightmare had resulted in their current empyrean state.

Christine would later wonder if it was only a dream, or if the last thing she heard before she slept had really been Erik muttering, "Damn nightmares!"  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Okay, now there's only the aftermath to write. I was going to put the first part of the aftermath at the end of this chappie, but, well, it would have taken me too long and it would have been another week before I updated!

You know how long it took Erik to write _Remember_? You know, that last song he sang for Christine? Yeah, that's about how long I freaking spent on it. Of course since I took nine drafts to write that song, Erik would probably get that much done in under sixty seconds, but Erik's a musical genius and I'm not. I've written a few things for the French horn, but the only music I've composed that's actually going to be marketed is the stuff I wrote for background music in a video game one of my friends is programming. I've never even composed anything for the voice, although I want to try a choral piece. But anyway, please forgive my woefully inadequate songwriting skills. I mean, I did try to think of what Erik would say—he's a bit desperate at this point, but he still has his pride. And I tried to use language from that era; for example, "I beg of you" was pretty much the same as "please" in the 1800's. _gets slapped by Christine_ Okay, okay, I'll shut up! Christine, I'm really starting to regret giving you a spine…

PLEASE REVIEW!


	8. Erik's Song for Christine

"Remember"  
(Erik's song for Christine)

-----

my angel, you lie imprisoned in the pits of hell  
patiently, silently awaiting your freedom  
my seraph, you'll have many horror tales to tell  
upon returning to the sunlit world

now, I implore you, I ask you not to move the Earth  
hopefully, sincerely, Christine I beg of you  
quite soon, I know you will long to forget  
upon returning to the living world

let the memories remain with you  
let the fallen angel's music still carry you  
let every small reflection stay pure and true  
erase not this time, remember it

my angel, you stay quiet in the face of terror  
tranquilly, fearlessly enduring this ordeal  
my seraph, do not feel any shame or dishonor  
upon your exodus from this hellish realm

now, I entreat you, no behemoth should you slay  
pensively, artlessly, Christine I beseech you  
quite soon, I know you will long to forget  
upon your exodus to the waking world

let the memories remain with you  
let the fallen angel's music still carry you  
let every small reflection stay pure and true  
erase not this time, remember it

forget not your guide, remember me


	9. Aubade and Aftermath

Three Days

Aubade and Aftermath

Summary: Slightly AU; what if Christine ran back to Erik as the mob approached, just to make sure he survived? And what if she stayed in Erik's kingdom of darkness for three days before returning to Raoul? ALW-based, with Kay influence because I FINALLY READ _PHANTOM_! w00t!

Disclaimer: If I owned _Phantom of the Opera_ and its many versions, Erik and Christine would have ended up together. So needless to say, I don't own any of them. (And if Kay's ending can be construed as Erik and Christine ending up together, I still don't own it.)

Pairings: Erik/Christine (doy)

Author's Notes: This chappie will contain the promised E/C ending. Do NOT lose faith!

* * *

Incidentally, it was Erik who woke first.

He did not even open his eyes; a lifetime of danger and suspicion caused him to immediately evaluate his surroundings before stirring. The first thing he noticed was, of course, the very warm, very feminine body of Christine resting in his arms.

Erik swiftly concluded that he was dreaming.

Christine lay very still, her chest rising and falling in a slow somnolent rhythm. _Still asleep,_ Erik mused, unable to stop himself from drinking in the delicate scent of Christine's hair and the feather-light press of her slackened fingers against his back. _If this is a dream, it remains to be seen whether it will be a nightmare or an agreeable dream. Well, that will be easily determined by whether or not Christine screams when she wakes_.

He remained as still as he could so as not to disturb his angel's slumber. Half apprehensive and half hopeful, he waited.

Christine woke not much later, and, like Erik, she instantly noted their intimate situation. She did not move either; she feigned sleep in order to savor their position for a while before she had to get up. Christine found Erik's embrace extraordinary; when Erik was holding her, she felt as if someone had ripped a shred from the night sky, woven it into a blanket, and swathed her body in it. The cool soothing fabric of the nighttime seemed to move and settle silkily against her skin, seeping the tension from her muscles, while the bright silver pinpoints of stars touched her like thrilling little explosions and made her skin tingle deliciously. The strangeness of these same sensations had once been off-putting, even frightening to her, but she luxuriated in them now.

When the unbidden, unwanted thought flitted into her head that this would likely be their last embrace, her insides cringed so violently she felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. She pictured Erik a few years later, languishing in some dark basement in America, thin and ill and lonely, cold and untouched by another human's comforting warmth. The image made tears spring to her eyes.

Erik noticed that she had woken when he felt her arms tighten around him. "Christine?" he queried hesitantly. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," came the sleepy reply. Christine stayed where she was, apparently not shocked or horrified.

_So, this is to be a good dream, then. This is surprising; when I dream at all, it's often a nightmare. A small child who barely knows how to count could hold up a number of fingers to show how many enjoyable dreams I've had…_

"Could we please stay like this for a while? I know it's improper, but…please?"

"Of course." Erik tousled her curls a little, not enough to tangle them, just enough to have to smooth them down again.

"Thank you."

A drowsy meow came from the foot of the bed, startling both of them. Erik seemed to have two females competing for his attention, even if one was feline; Ayesha had been curled up on his feet. Now she stood, stretched indolently, and climbed over his side, purring. She shot him a quizzical, slightly irritated look when she noticed Christine, as if to say, _That girl's in my spot!_

Erik's blood turned cold. _If this were a dream, Ayesha would likely not be here…it would be just Christine and myself. Am I not dreaming? No, that can't be…neither of us would have allowed this._

"Erik?" Christine squeezed his shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

He did not say anything, for the only thing he could think of to say was, "Christine, am I dreaming?" But that sounded completely ludicrous.

"I'm not leaving just yet." Christine had chosen to guess what was troubling him.

"It isn't that." Memories returned in a flood. Erik remembered Christine's nightmare, leaving her side, Christine coming to find him, and threatening to go sleep in his coffin if he refused to stay with her. It took every ounce of his self-control not to release Christine; at this point, she would have been more offended than relieved. But still, Erik could not quite grasp that Christine had convinced him to lie beside her like this.

"Perhaps we should get up."

Christine tipped her head back to look at him. "But…I thought you would want…"

"If I don't release you soon, your boy will think I've abducted you permanently and send the entire Parisian police force down here. I do not particularly wish to be shot dead today."

Christine winced. "They wouldn't shoot you, right?"

"If they believe that my death is necessary in order to rescue you, then yes."

She buried her face in Erik's shirtfront. "You are so used to people trying to kill you that you know all this so…so clearly?"

"You might say that," he replied, gently outlining Christine's shoulder blade with his thumb.

"When I asked you what kind of life you had known, I hadn't any notion what I was asking!"

"No, angel, you didn't."

Christine's arms wrapped even closer around Erik's torso.

"Christine! I do believe my ribs are in danger of being snapped!"

"Oh! I am sorry." She loosened her grip hastily, but Erik was laughing.

"You have no idea how relieving it feels for me to know you care, Christine…even if you express that care by nearly squeezing the life from me."

Christine couldn't hold back a soft giggle.

"I should get you some breakfast now. It's already eight-o-clock, or thereabouts."

"How can you tell?" she protested, faintly dreading the moment when Erik would let go of her; after all, this was likely their last embrace. Ever.

"If you've lived in darkness as long as I have, you can tell how the day is changing and progressing without even using a clock."

"Is that the same reason you can see in the dark?" Christine was fairly sure her attempt to distract him would fail, but even if it could gain her a few seconds…

"Not exactly. I have always had excellent night vision. I suppose I was lucky, to have such a gift that would allow me to survive in this unending nighttime, as I can't survive in the normal world."

Christine questioned, "If you can't survive in the 'normal world,' how will you survive in the New World?"

"I will find a place. Somewhere dark, and underground, where no one but rats will think to look. Perhaps an old church basement might have an organ…"

A fresh idea leapt into her thoughts. "But what about Ayesha? And your bats?"

"I will bring them with me, of course. The bats will need a cage, but I can make one that will suit them."

"Oh." Christine's mind scrambled frantically for another excuse for Erik to stay.

"We should get up, angel."

"…all right," she conceded miserably. She felt Erik's arms unwrap from around her body, and a swell of cold disappointment rose in her stomach.

"I'm afraid I don't have time to make you any porridge," Erik remarked, standing and straightening his mask. "You'll have to eat the same as you did yesterday."

"That's…that's fine."

"You may want to gather your things. Your breakfast will be ready for you when you are finished."

She nodded, pushing the sheets away from her body and slipped off her bed. Her bare toes curled against the cold floor. "Erik?"

"Yes?" He had been brushing aside the sheer silver curtain, but hadn't exactly left yet.

"I will…miss you."

Erik sighed lightly. "I hope for your sake that you're wrong."

Christine bowed her head and began packing her belongings as Erik left. Her movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if she could slow time by moving slowly herself. Even after she was done, she lifted her father's violin case from its place in her saddlebag and ran her fingertips over the worn leather, remembering how Erik had risked venturing into the half-destroyed opera house to retrieve it for her.

She undressed, painfully aware of the cold air's bite on her bare skin. She trembled, hastily pulling on the shifts and gown that she had conveniently left out. Looking down at herself, she realized abruptly that she had chosen a dress of which Raoul was not fond, an odd choice for the day when she would return to him. It was a soft, pale mauve color, one that seemed to shift to light rose or smooth grey depending on the light; Christine loved the changing colors. They reminded her of a flame in a gentle breeze, for you could watch the fabric (or the flame) for ages and still not be quite sure which color you were seeing. There were few embellishments or decorations, except for a web of silky white fibers and tiny pearls hanging gracefully below the neckline. It fit the shape of her slight body well without being at all scandalous or revealing. Raoul considered the gown plain. "It's so drab," he had once complained to her. "You should wear something a bit more elaborate, Christine. That old thing makes you look so ordinary and prudish." Christine had disagreed; she thought the dress made her look delicate and alluring, even a little mysterious. When she was young, she had always feared fading into the mundane, and she felt that a hue-shifting gown was at least a little extraordinary. _I have a strange feeling that Erik would agree with me. Raoul wouldn't listen to me, though…he requested that I change into a new dress at least thrice the last time I wore this. _

Christine carried her bags to the kitchen, her feet dragging as if they supported an intolerable burden. She nearly tripped several times, each time almost wishing she had, for it would mean an extra few seconds of getting back on her feet. True to his word, Erik had finished making breakfast for her, and, surprisingly, himself.

"At least I know you'll keep your promise to keep eating once I'm gone," Christine remarked in a falsely cheery voice. Erik, of course, noticed her failed attempt at maintaining a light mood.

"I will make my most valiant attempt to do so," Erik assured her, walking over to run his hand over her curls as she sat down. She turned her head into the light touch, but his hand fell away. "You should eat quickly, Christine. The faster you return to your boy, the less likely he is to storm this place."

She nodded silently and began eating. Her mouth was dry and tasted of bloody sand, so she could not even sense the flavor of the marmalade on her bread.

Across the table from her, Erik watched her carefully, well aware of her discomfort. _It may be difficult for her to accept that we are to be separated now, but soon she will accept it. Likely she'll ever wonder why she thought she would miss me…_

Christine's eating pace was very like her packing pace; purposefully slow. She knew Erik was right about Raoul becoming more and more suspicious the later it got, and yet she could not force herself to hurry.

Erik apparently thought he could assist with that. "I know you wish to draw out your stay here, angel, but you cannot."

"I know." Christine squeezed her eyes shut.

Erik had already finished eating, so he got up and crossed the room again to stand behind Christine's chair and lightly rest his hands on her shoulders, feeling that the simple contact was enough comfort for both of them. Christine was still halfway through her breakfast, but she placed her left palm over one of his hands.

"Angel, I know this saddens you now, but I'd lay odds you'll feel better within a day or so of going home."

"I would take that wager!" Christine laughed ruefully.

"Would you? Just a few months ago, a single day destroyed thirteen years of trust and friendship between us. What are three insignificant days compared to thirteen years? I'd not be surprised if you began hating me once more as soon as you're back in the Vicomte's arms."

"No!" Christine whispered fiercely. "I promise."

"If you say so, Christine."

When she was done eating, Erik gave a light squeeze to her shoulder. "We should depart now."

"Do you ever consider just keeping me here and not letting me go back to Raoul?"

"Oh, come now, think about this situation as a fairy tale: childhood sweethearts reunited after many years, against all the odds. What right do I have to interfere with such a happy ending?"

"What about _your_ happy ending?" Christine shot back. Knowing Erik for thirteen years had given her a good idea of how to engage in a witty repartee.

He snickered dryly. "I'm alive. That's more than the poor dragons in fairy tales can hope for."

"May I at least say goodbye to New Moon before we go?" she pleaded.

_I can't deny her that; I know she and New Moon have bonded._ "Certainly."

They walked side by side to the closed-off miniature cave where the bats resided. Erik lit a candle, and the bats soon flocked to him, except for New Moon, who crawled over to Christine. She cupped the plucky little animal in both hands and gentled his ears and his contorted wings. He hung from Christine's index finger, his feet digging into her skin, but she didn't mind.

"We should go, angel. I keep expecting to hear a raiding party clamoring as they hunt me out with rifles."

He was right, so Christine carefully set New Moon back down. She petted Shadow's one ear before proceeding out the door, her heavy heart weighing down her steps.

After she had returned to the kitchen, Christine took a final look at Erik's magnificent home. The delicate yet majestic candelabra that she had so admired—the stately, shining pipes of the organ, looming above the bench where she and Erik had sat—the fascinating curls and wisps of evanescent mist off the lake—Erik's kingdom of music. _Erik rules this place of beauty and harmony like a king, and I could have been his queen…_

"Come, Christine." Erik beckoned from the open entrance to one of the tunnels. She lowered her gaze obediently strode demurely to his side, fighting the harsh tingle at the backs of her eyes. Being his usual gentlemanly self, Erik carried one of Christine's saddlebags for her; his other hand was occupied with holding hers.

The meandering walk through the catacombs to the upper world seemed to take less time than it takes you to flinch when a friend snaps their fingers by your ear. Christine blinked at the painful whiteness assaulting her senses when Erik led her into the sunlight. Paris was already bustling with both equestrian and pedestrian traffic, and the clattering and shouting noises bombarded Christine's ears. She flinched uncomfortably, squinting against the pulsating glare of sunlight. The colors of the rapidly moving surrounding scene seemed gaudy, almost odious, searing her eyes with their obnoxious brightness.

"Let's find you a cab, my angel." Seeing her discomfort at the barrage of sights and sounds, Erik gently lifted the hand that held his to her forehead, shielding her eyes.

Christine stood trembling at his side while Erik hailed a cab. She leaned her cheek against his bony shoulder, unable to believe that in a few minutes her cab would ride out of sight and she would never see Erik again. _A week ago, I would have been on bended knee thanking God for such a thing! How could three days change so much?_ She clung tighter to his arm, hoping her clutching fingers weren't hurting him.

"Christine?" He reached over to take her gripping hand. "I know this is difficult for you. I am sorry…but this whole ordeal will be over soon."

"Difficult for me?" she whispered. "What about you? How can you be so calm about this?"

"'This,' as you call it, is like removing stitches. Do it quickly and think about the pain afterwards. It is taking every ounce of self-control that I never knew I had not to drag you kicking and screaming back to my home."

"I wouldn't kick and scream." She pressed her face into his sleeve.

"Don't tempt me."

"Need a cab, monsieur?"

Christine glanced up, startled, to find that a carriage had pulled up on the street in front of her. Her hand tightened around Erik's slender fingers.

Erik withdrew a small packet of folded monetary bills from a pocket and handed them to the driver. "Take her to the Chagny estate. Make sure she gets there safely."

"Will do, monsieur." The cabbie pocketed the money.

Erik pried Christine's fingers from his, unfortunately not keeping her hand clasped within his for any length of time longer than necessary. "Here are your things, Christine."

"Just Christine?" She smiled bitterly. "I'm not your angel anymore?"

"Don't say that!" Erik took her firmly by the shoulders, but not enough to hurt. "Christine, you will always be my angel. You know that."

"Yes, I know." Summoning every ounce of her strength, Christine tore her arms from Erik's grasp and threw them around his neck.

Erik froze, startled by the gesture. "Christine, there isn't time…"

"I'm not leaving until you put your arms around me!" she whispered fiercely.

"Angel…"

"Erik, please."

Finally giving in to the instincts that screamed at him to embrace Christine, Erik slipped his arms around the warm, lithe body of the young woman who he had practically raised. They held on to each other with a desperate, almost painful tightness, but neither let go.

"Mam'selle?" inquired the confused cabbie. "Are you coming?"

"I'll be right along," Christine called. She laid her cheek against Erik's chest, battling tears.

"You should go, angel."

"No…"

"You must."

In response, Christine began quietly singing the Irish blessing that Erik had taught her. She could not say bring herself to simply say goodbye, but perhaps she could express it through music. "_May the road rise up to meet you._" Her voice felt as if it had been swallowed up halfway out her mouth, for the words were strangled and barely discernible.

But Erik understood. "_May the wind be always at your back._" His voice, unlike hers, was clear; it was rich and warm with feeling.

"_May the sun shine warm upon your face…_" Christine sang back, struggling to rid her tone of the choking sorrow. She failed.

"…_and the rain fall soft upon your fields_."

The next line was "until we meet again," but Erik knew perfectly well that he and Christine would never again see each other. Instead of replying with song, Erik smoothed Christine's hair and carefully pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Her curls felt cool and smooth, smelling faintly of early spring roses.

Christine's heart thumped painfully, thinking of how it would be the last time Erik kissed her—or anyone, most likely.

He released her from their feverish embrace, and Christine felt an ice dagger plunge into her stomach. Still holding her hand, Erik guided her gently to the carriage, opening the door for her, helping her inside, lifting her saddlebags onto her lap.

She clung. The small white fingers were surprisingly strong, and her nails left thin pink lines in Erik's anemic skin. "Erik, wait."

He looked slowly into her quivering eyes and did not try to extricate his hand from her grip.

"Will I…see you again? Ever?"

Erik smiled morosely. "I believe you already know the answer to that, angel." He gently eased his fingers away from hers and closed the carriage door. He turned away as the horses began trotting, their footfalls like gunshots to Christine's ears, and she nearly plastered herself to the window, watching Erik's cape flutter lightly as he retreated. As he faded swiftly into the crowd, the tears Christine had been suppressing began to flow, slow caustic rivulets cutting tracks in her pale cheeks.

"No, I don't believe I know the answer to that, Erik," she whispered fervently, brushing a salty droplet of water away from her face. "But I do believe that we will meet again. And until then…_may God hold you in the palm of his hand_."

If only such ardent faith could truly change reality…

* * *

The pain of seeing Christine and that foolish, ignorant, weak, spoiled boy embrace against a backdrop of excruciatingly lovely Parisian sky was a mere scratch, a _paper cut_, compared to this.

As Erik descended into the cold, lifeless depths of his home, he could see nothing for the thick smoldering tears glazing his eyes. His feet moved independently of his mind, his hands disabling traps from memory so old it was now innate—how long had it been, that he remembered such things as if they were animal instincts? Thirteen years? Thirteen bloody years of languishing in this miserable darkness unfit for human life, thirteen years laboring over the tutelage of Christine Daaé, then later the comforting, the protection, the _obsession_…what was the opera house without her? At the time of its construction, designing the opera house had seemed like an act of love, almost, creating something so magnificent, that would give music to all of Paris…what was it now? A great massive pile of crumbling stone, disintegrating metals, and twisted rubble? Erik's self-imposed position as Opera Ghost had once been devoted to purging the unworthy and the talentless, presenting only the loveliest and most well-prepared productions to the public. When had it become his life's work to make Christine into the scintillating star she so deserved to be?

Erik stumbled, a thing he hadn't done in years, if ever—with perhaps a few exceptions in the past few days. He couldn't recall. All that was important was that Christine's time with him was over. Was he already forgetting how innocent and endearing she looked when she blushed shyly at a compliment? Was he already forgetting how, at the tender age of ten, she had been all joints and skinny limbs and frizzy hair and used to cry over how her Angel was her only friend?

He pressed his hand to his chest and was amazed to find his heart still beating. And, oh, it was beating, fast and hard, at a rate that was surely impossible to survive. Each throb of the bitter useless muscle sent shockwaves of exquisite agony through every inch of his body, so intense it was almost nausea. Erik lost his balance and slumped to the floor in a half-conscious state. The rough ground bit into his bony kneecaps, but that pain was insignificant, minuscule.

_Christine is gone_.

He wondered dimly if it were indeed possible to die of a broken heart. For his was certainly about to either burst from sheer effort or give out completely. He realized that the hand placed against his stricken heart was trembling so quickly it seemed blurry. Or was that only the tears?

_Get a hold of yourself! _Erik screamed internally. _You have no right to be upset over this! No right at all! Christine is gone—well, good! She'll be happy now, and safe from you; is that now what you want for her? All she wants is "freedom, a world with no more night." You gave that to her! Selfish, greedy, thing you are, crying over her!_

Yes, he should be happy for Christine, who was on her way to a better life.

Ayesha, bless her feline heart, came to his side, climbed into his legs, and began licking the uncovered side of his face. She pawed gently at Erik's chest, as if to ask, "What's wrong, my human?"

"She's gone," he said simply in reply.

* * *

Christine sat stiffly through the remainder of the ride to Raoul's estate. Her spine felt as if it had changed to wood, and her tears froze on her icy cheeks. Instead of breaking down and sobbing inconsolably, which she had rather felt like doing at first, she felt completely numb. _Someone could run a sword through my belly and I would not feel it,_ she thought dimly. Her hands were red and raw from gripping the handles of her saddlebags, but there was no pain.

The carriage halted. Christine's head jerked forward loosely, as if her frame were being manipulated by a marionetteer who had threaded strings through her body when she wasn't looking.

"We're here, mam'selle."

"_Merci beaucoup,_" she replied distantly.

"I say, are you all right?"

"What?" She blinked, startled by the question.

The cabbie turned to look at her. He was a bit older than middle age, and had a face that had been worn and used by life, well-lined with a thin white scar above one eyebrow. "It's none of my business, mam'selle, but you seemed like you didn't exactly want to leave your husband behind, there…"

"Oh, he…he isn't my husband. We…we're not even a couple, really…" She laid her head against the stiff headrest. "He is my teacher." _I dare not say anything else. I might damn Erik to die before he left if I let slip that the Phantom is still alive._

"I see," replied the cabbie, his eyes widening in surprise. "Good day, then, mam'selle."

Christine fumbled with the door handle before almost tumbling onto the pavement. Her shoulder made hard contact with the side of the carriage as she tripped; it would surely leave a bruise, but she barely noticed. As the carriage drove away, the clatter of the wheels on the grimy cobblestones sounded more like distant thunder than the sharp, hollow reports that she had expected. She plodded listlessly to the door, unable to feel the cruel slicing wind against her cheeks as it billowed her loose curls out behind her.

The doors loomed, broad, lifeless, expanses of dead wood. She lifted a heavy brass knocker, which was adorned with the ugly, incredibly unrealistic visage of a lion. Christine had always thought of lions as majestic and beautiful, fit for better things than doorknockers.

A gray-faced butler with a comically large nose opened the door. "May I help you, mademoiselle?" His tone could not be described as anything but condescending. His beady black eyes regarded her as if she were a beetle crawling in the street.

Christine swallowed, utterly at a loss. She had little knowledge of etiquette in such situations. "I'm—I'm here to see Raoul. I mean, the Vicomte. My name is Christine Daaé…I am his fiancé?" She did not mean for the last sentence to become a question, but it sounded that way, as if she were asking whether or not she and Raoul were truly betrothed.

"I am afraid," said the butler, sniffling lightly as if Christine smelled badly, "that Monsieur le Vicomte is indisposed at the moment…"

"Fabien!" a familiar voice echoed throughout the massive entry hall. "I told you to keep a lookout for her!"

"I presumed, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Fabien stiffly, the corners of his mouth turning down like putty, "that you might have chosen a woman of higher standing as your bride…"

Raoul raced down the enormous spiraling staircase. "Let her in, Fabien!"

"Very well." The butler swung the door open and bowed perhaps half an inch as Christine walked inside with a tremulous "thank you."

Raoul rushed to Christine's side and embraced her tightly, apparently forgetting the rules of propriety that expressly forbade him from such a show of affection. More out of reflex than the actual desire to do so, she dropped her bags to the floor and returned Raoul's hug.

"I was worried about you, Little Lotte!" He kissed her gently on the mouth. "I was ready to send the police to storm that monster's place and get you out of there before something terrible happened."

_So Erik was right,_ Christine thought, chilled. _If I'd delayed much longer, Raoul would have brought the police to Erik's home and he likely would have been shot._

Raoul, of course, misunderstood Christine's shudder. "It's all right. You're here now."

Christine said nothing. Instead, she found herself thinking how ordinary Raoul's embrace seemed. In just the past minute, he had shown her more affection than Erik had allowed himself over the past three days, yet it seemed unimpassioned. When Erik had embraced her, it was an Event, with a capital letter, something to treasure and remember.

Raoul released her and took her gently by the shoulders. "Are you well, Little Lotte? Was that…that thing cruel to you? Did he beat you?"

_Did I really use to talk about Erik that way?_ Christine wondered. _No wonder he was so convinced I hated him!_ "No, of course not. Erik wouldn't hurt me, not on purpose."

"Erik?" Raoul repeated, puzzled.

"That's his name. Didn't I tell you that in my note to you? I also remember writing that you shouldn't be worried."

"I thought that he would have forced you to write those things!"

"Raoul, he's not nearly as terrible as you think," Christine insisted. "He saved me more than once, even when he had stopped caring about his own life. He treated me very well, really."

"Really?" The Vicomte was evidently surprised. "He didn't…take advantage of you?"

"No!" Christine cried vehemently. _Why does everyone assume that Erik raped me?_ "Erik would never do such a thing to me."

"Thank God," Raoul sighed. "My parents would never let us marry if such a thing had happened to you."

Christine's head snapped up. _That_ was why Raoul was glad? He didn't care about her feelings if she had actually been raped? "Why, because I wouldn't be a virgin? It's not as if we hadn't already…"

"Hush!" Raoul placed a finger over Christine's mouth. Fabien was still in earshot.

Christine kept her mouth shut. It had happened only once—they both decided that the risk of Christine becoming pregnant was too great—but no one could know.

"Come upstairs," Christine's fiancé urged her. "We will talk, and you can forget those three days of hell."

Christine walked with him to the stairs, but countered his words. "'Three days of hell?'" She reiterated, a little angrily.

He glanced at her, startled, his long hair swinging around his chin. Christine was suddenly irritated; couldn't Raoul cut his hair? Its length was more immature than sophisticated. "Christine, you can't tell me you actually _enjoyed_ spending time with that creature!"

"Don't call him that!" she snapped, startled at her own fervor. "He's not a creature, or a thing. He's a man. And he was very kind to me, if you must know."

Raoul blithely laughed off Christine's intense denial. She bristled, strangely incensed. Had Raoul always paid so little attention to what she said? "He was _kind_ to you? Where did he learn how to behave that way, I wonder?"

Christine retorted, "That's a rather good question, actually, considering he's seen almost no kindness his entire life. But wherever he learned it, he's better at it than most men I've met."

"All right, Little Lotte, he was kind to you. If you say so." Raoul made an attempt to kiss her, but she dodged. She knew he didn't believe her. Spontaneous kisses from Raoul weren't enough to mollify her anymore.

"Not _if I say so_. It is true. He made sure I wanted for absolutely nothing. He taught me new songs and told me folk tales from all the places he's been—he's likely seen half the world! And he made this for me!" They had reached the landing at the top of the staircase, and now that she was no longer walking, Christine could carefully lift the rose pendant from where it rested on her collarbone without any fear of damaging it. "Look at this, Raoul. Imagine how long it took him to make it." She did not know how to describe the miraculous aura of care and tenderness that the necklace possessed, but surely Raoul could see it!

Raoul took the pendant in his hand. "It's quite pretty, but you say he _made_ this for you?"

"He did. He's a genius. He's not only an extraordinary composer and wonderful music teacher—and he designed the opera house!—but he must know more about medicine than most doctors. I came down with a cold the night he rescued me. He dosed me with something—I'm not quite positive what, but I know it was something he created—and I was fine by the next morning. Compared to that, what is a necklace, even one this…incredible?" Christine cupped the pendant in both palms, gazing down at one of the two physical mementos she had of her stay in Erik's home.

"It's only an ordinary necklace, Christine." Raoul moved to her side and slipped an arm around her waist, concern glowing in his eyes. "He's bewitched you again."

"'Bewitched?' I'm afraid there is a difference between genius and sorcery, Raoul!" She moved away from his half-embrace. "When he plays for me, yes, I am _transfixed_, it is like magic, but it's beautiful music, not witchcraft."

"When he plays for you?"

"Yes—he plays violin and organ, likely piano, and God knows what else. He wrote his own requiem."

"Little Lotte," said Raoul gently, "it sounds as if he's trying to win you over by…overwhelming you with gifts and such."

"What would you know about dazzling a woman with meaningless trinkets, Raoul? Does your brother Philippe do such things? You've told me he's a rather typical nobleman in that sense, unlike you…" _'Dazzling a woman with meaningless trinkets?' Goodness, I'm beginning to sound a bit like Erik…_ "Erik loves me. He is a musician; writing songs for me is his way of expressing it."

"He doesn't love you!" Raoul looked thoroughly shocked at the notion. "He is obsessed with you. He's a madman!"

When she looked up, Christine's eyes blazed with such passion that Raoul almost flinched. What had happened to his timorous Little Lotte, who needed his protection from the monster under the opera house?

Her voice was calm, if stretched taut. Even when upset, Christine had never been one to pitch tantrums and become violent. (Raoul, obviously, didn't know how Christine had slapped Erik for calling himself a monster.) "Raoul, let me ask you something. Let's say you take a boy eight years old whose family has treated him with fear and disgust, put him in a cage in a gypsy freak show with a keeper who beats him so terribly he still has countless scars. Then after he escapes, he becomes a kindly stonemason's apprentice; say the stonemason has a beautiful daughter who runs off a high balcony and dies when she sees the poor boy's face. He is only a teenager when this happens. You expect this boy to grow into a man _without_ him going mad?"

"Those things happened to the—to Erik?" Raoul's skepticism was obvious.

"Yes. And that's not even the half of it, I expect. I know he was an architect for the shah of Persia, but all he would tell me was that he has a friend—Nadir Khan, I think his name is—who was the police chief of the kingdom. Oh, and Monsieur Khan had a sick son, whose disease was not curable; Erik took it upon himself to make the boy's passing as painless as possible."

"Lies, Christine." Raoul insisted softly. "Elaborate lies to make you feel sorry for him."

"I _saw_ the scars! I saw them on his back. There's no skin left in some places, only scarring. They had a rather stretched look about them, as well—you know, as if they'd been made when he was very, _very_ young!" _Is this me speaking? Since when am I so…assertive? Well, perhaps Raoul will listen more closely to me now…_

Raoul paled, looking absolutely nauseous. "Christine, that is disgusting! It isn't like you to say such things! What has happened to you?"

"I have finally opened my eyes," she replied heavily. "Raoul, you have never seen real pain, real suffering. Erik has seen more than any man should have to experience in ten lifetimes. I may not fully understand what he's been through, but I have discovered just how cruelly I treated him. He wasn't completely mad when he first became my Angel of Music—when I panicked, ran from him, decided I hated him, that was when he went mad. I was—I _am_—all he had. He's devoted his entire life to being my Angel, and I…" Christine broke off and shook her head. "Like a foolish child, I discarded him."

"You were _right_ to do that!" Raoul insisted, taking Christine in his arms. She did not return the embrace. "Do you not remember the night he killed a man? I have never seen you so terrified!"

"Buquet died in a trap protecting Erik's home. He was trespassing." Christine did not mention that Erik would have likely disposed of Buquet anyway, considering his questionable intentions toward Christine and Meg. "In one night, I forgot thirteen years Erik spent laboring over caring for me. Did you know he was there on the roof that night? He saw us. He watched the only person he had ever _dared_ to hope would accept him choose another man." She wriggled free of Raoul's arms and leaned over the banister, her fingers white and strained over the varnished wood, barely able to imagine and unable to comprehend the horrible things Erik must have felt, watching Christine and Raoul embrace.

When she felt a pair of arms encircle her waist from behind, she found herself wishing it were Erik, whispering that Christine was still his little angel and he had forgiven her for betraying him.

Of course, it was Raoul, and Christine could not pretend; Erik's arms were thinner, unhealthier, despite their wiry strength.

"I'm worried he's dying, Raoul," she murmured.

"No one can really die of a broken heart, Little Lotte," Raoul reassured her, kissing her cheek.

"No," she agreed, "but one can die of starvation."

"Starvation?"

"He has stopped eating since I denied him." Christine closed her eyes, remembering the sharpness of Erik's shoulder underneath her soothing palm the first time she had realized how emaciated he had become. "He's barely more than a skeleton now."

"He stopped eating? What, to gain sympathy from you?" Raoul sounded almost amused.

Christine was losing her patience, a thing that rarely happened…well, it _had _rarely happened, up until lately. "He would rather feel hungry than feel heartsick."

"That's a bit melodramatic, isn't it?"

"He lives under an _opera house_, Raoul."

"Christine…you don't…feel sorry for him, do you?" He spoke the words as if the idea were faintly absurd.

"Of course I do! No one could be so heartless as to…" she trailed off, shaking her head. The sentence did not need finishing.

"Little Lotte," said Raoul softly, "perhaps you should rest. You've been through quite a lot the past few days."

"All right," Christine sighed. _I need some time alone, to think about this…_

"You may stay in the guest bedroom."

"Do…do your parents have any objection to me staying here?"

"My parents and Philippe are away on official business. They won't know."

"What will you tell them when they return?" Christine pressed, knowing Raoul's tendency to not think of consequences. When he had plunged into the sea to rescue her scarf when they were young, he hadn't considered that he would become soaking wet after doing so.

Raoul shrugged lightly, just as Christine had expected him to do. "We will cross that bridge when we come to it." He shepherded her into the guest bedroom; she laid her saddlebags down beside the bed and sat down on the corner. Raoul settled down beside her and draped her arm leisurely across her shoulders.

"Raoul?"

"Yes?"

"I would like to be alone for a little while."

He nodded diplomatically. "Of course; you need some time to recover after staying with—" He cut himself off when he saw the wary, almost warning look Christine gave him. "After being away," he substituted quickly. "If you need me, just ring the bell on the bedside table. Fabien or one of the maids will hear it, and you can tell them that you wish to see me."

"Couldn't I just call you?" she queried, wondering at the practicality of such a system.

Raoul looked perplexed. "Christine, this manor is very extensive. No one can be _shouting_!"

She couldn't help but be slightly wounded at his abrupt negation of her suggestion. "All right." Christine hugged her knees to her chest and turned her gaze to a random spot in the air, indicating that she was finished conversing.

Raoul left her alone with her thoughts. She considered unpacking her bags, but instead she remained sitting on the stiff cover of the guest room bed. The room was quite ornate, certainly, but in Christine's mind, it was flamboyant and a little vulgar. The elaborately crafted, darkly stained furniture was built in the latest fashion; Christine noted the familiar claw-footed style that made her spine shudder. The colors of the drooping curtains and matching bedspread were ostentatious and arrantly bright, and the room seemed stuffed fat and pompous with gaudy hues and pieces of ridiculously intricate furnishings. The atmosphere was not tasteful; it reeked of excessive wealth that begged and screamed to be displayed until the onlooker's head spun. Christine found herself missing the cool, swirling, omnipresent mist and quietly elegant darkness of Erik's home.

_Erik simply creates things to be beautiful,_ Christine thought listlessly. _He doesn't have to try, and he certainly doesn't fail like this!_ She lay down on the coverlet, turning her face into the fabric so she couldn't see the odious décor. The quilt felt rough and coarse against her soft skin, and it smelled starched and unfriendly. _What would Erik say if he could see this vulgar tableau…_

Erik. What was he doing now? Was he already attempting to gather his things for the trip to America? Or was he mourning her? She remembered him saying, "This is like removing stitches. Do it quickly and think about the pain afterwards." So now that Christine was gone, was he finally allowing himself to think of how much it hurt to lose her?

She placed a cold hand over her own heart, which seemed inflamed and sore. _I miss him…but whatever pain I feel must be increased tenfold for him. I wonder if he'll ever recover from this. He has already survived so much, but God, when does it become too much?_ Christine's tears slipped quietly down her face, sinking into the abrasive material of the coverlet and softening it. _Erik wants what is best for me. He is certain that I would be better off with Raoul rather than him, but if this heartache doesn't subside, I don't know if I can stay away!_

She rolled onto her back, eyes closed. "What should I do?" she whispered aloud. _I can't ask anyone for advice. I must make this decision for myself. But who would I ask anyway? What would Papa want me to do?_

An unexpected pang shot through her chest at the thought, so sharp and cruel she almost cried out. _I've lost my mother, my father, and now Erik. Why does it have to hurt so much?_ Her eyes cracked open as she recalled something Erik had said about her father…something about her heartache being an "old wound" that had never healed. _Erik said that I had kept my sorrow hidden, and that is why I still mourn. But I wonder if Raoul will listen…_

She mentally shook herself. It would not do to dwell on her distress. Instead, she tried to focus only on her breathing, which was something Erik had taught her to do when she was very young and the other ballet rats had been teasing her. It had always helped her relax, and once she was calm, she had been able to realize that the other girls' taunts didn't bother her much after all. Eventually, she was able to tune out the other dancers' teasing even while it was happening, and they stopped mocking her altogether.

Today, though, she could not seem to concentrate. When she rolled back onto her side to try to get more comfortable, she found herself remembering how she had been in that exact posture when she had awakened, except the first thing she'd noticed upon waking was Erik's arms wrapped around her. _I felt like the nighttime was holding me_, Christine thought, squeezing her body inside her own arms. _Most people would find such an idea strange, but I don't…not anymore…_

Frustrated and confused, she stood and paced…as if _that _could clear her mind when she'd been unable to meditate. She shut the door room, straightened the bedclothes, and rearranged her belongings, but she still felt agitated and even a little choleric, as if she desperately needed to do something; and apparently mundane activities could not dispel such feelings. Normally, Christine could dispel antsy feelings by reorganizing things; the mindless activity helped her calm down. As a result, she had always been very organized.

Today, though, her soul itched with something deeper than mere restlessness. Something was wrong, and she could not remedy the situation without knowing what was so deeply troubling her. And she thought again, _What should I do, Papa? _She had tacitly asked that question many times since her father died, as if he could hear her and might send her a message from heaven. It hadn't yet brought an appreciable response, but it somehow seemed to help.

As she paced, the image of a young woman in her peripheral vision caught her eye. When she whirled to see who it was, she felt relieved and a little foolish to note that the thing she had seen was a mirror. She had not recognized herself at first.

She stepped closer to the mirror, mystified by her own reflection. The person in the mirror was not a young girl, but a young woman…an extremely beautiful young woman gazing back at her. The reflection had a mass of dark curls that spilled in half-chocolate, half-ebony resplendence over her back and shoulders, and extremely dark eyes that sparkled distantly as if her pupils held start. Her complexion was fair, quite fair, but it was not the paleness of exhaustion or disease; her skin seemed to be made of the purest white silk. The woman was clad in a gown of subtle color that shifted from hue to hue like the waxing and waning of the moon. Christine's immediate reaction was that she was looking at an illustration of a nymph or princess in a fairy tale.

_That's me,_ she thought with a little shiver. She reached forward to brush her fingertips against the cool surface of the mirror, as if needing reassurance that the reflection she saw was indeed hers. _Has my hair always had black in it? Have my eyes always looked like that?_

Three days spent learning to see the beauty in darkness had changed her. She had become, like Erik, a denizen of the kingdom of nighttime.

_I look…beautiful,_ Christine thought, almost dazed. _I look like I do in Erik's drawings. Am I really that…do I really look like this, and I never noticed? I always saw myself as a skinny mess of joints, but apparently that is no longer the case!_

She turned her eyes to the reflection of her own face. The expression, at least, was hers; one of wonder tainted with confusion. The unfamiliar silvery stars, though, continued to twinkle mysteriously in the stills of her eyes.

Christine wrapped both of her cold arms around herself, as if in an embrace. She paced aimlessly, back and forth, like a black panther stolen from the dark, wild safety of the jungle and imprisoned in an iron cage.

When the light tap came at her door, she started so violently that her feet lifted slightly off the ground.

"Little Lotte?"

"Yes?" She ran her hands over her curls almost reflexively.

Raoul pushed the door open and moved forward a few steps to take Christine in his arms. It took her a few seconds to notice, and to return the gesture; their embrace felt depressingly ordinary, like placing one's foot on a step to climb into a carriage.

"Dinner is ready, Christine." Raoul tousled her hair playfully.

"All right," she replied stiffly.

He released her, taking her by the shoulders and appraising her like a sculpture or a painting. Christine felt slightly offended.

"That tired old grey thing again?" He said with opprobrium. "Little Lotte, don't you ever wear anything a little more…interesting?"

"I love this dress." Christine's response sounded a bit colder than she intended.

"You'd look much lovelier in brighter colors," Raoul continued, as if she'd never spoken. "You should change."

"I won't change," Christine retorted as visions of bright, gaudy, vulgar hues flitted through her mind. "I want to wear this. I'm not fond of bright colors."

Raoul peered into her face. "Are you all right? You don't seem like yourself. And look how pale you are!"

"I've always been pale, Raoul, I'm Swedish."

"Are you sure you're all right? You look ill."

"I'm perfectly all right," she insisted.

"Well…if you say so." Raoul slipped his arm around her, and they proceeded down the corridors that way.

The deChagny dining room was massive.

Christine felt as if her senses were being completely overloaded as she stepped into the room. The style reminded her of that of the guestroom: florid, showy, and, in the end, unattractive from its excessive décor. She found her mind unable to focus on one thing alone; there was only one thing at a time, so she chose to rip her divided attention from the enormous tumbling scarlet curtains, the rug with its ludicrously ornate patterns, the ugly and overdone curves and curlicues of the furniture, and God knows what else, and study the delicate rose pendant at her throat. The rose's petals were intricate, of course, but there was a difference between the perfect imitation of natural beauty and the almost violent attempt to create manufactured beauty.

"Christine?"

She glanced up sharply. "Yes?"

"The servants have already prepared the table. Do you not wish to sit down?" Raoul gestured at the table, a bit mystified by Christine's strange mood.

"What…? Oh, yes." She moved to the chair that Raoul had indicated, avoiding his eyes.

Still looking a bit nonplussed, Raoul lowered himself into his own chair; naturally, at the other end of the considerably long table.

"Would you not sit beside me?" Christine queried.

"It's not proper etiquette," Raoul reminded her patiently. "I will have to teach you these things. Hopefully growing up in that opera house hasn't completely demolished your sense of politesse."

_I would not have called it "proper etiquette" to kiss me in front of Fabien_, Christine retaliated mentally, but held her tongue.

Their meal was already laid out on the table. "Normally, the servants would bring out the courses as we finished the previous one, but I persuaded them to place the entire meal on the table so we would not be interrupted," Raoul explained.

"I see. The normal regulations for table-setting are ignored so we can be alone together," Christine mused. "So, Raoul, can you bend the rules of etiquette whenever you wish, and I cannot?" She said it idly, so it could only be construed as an innocent question, but she felt faintly amused at his flustered expression.

"Well, no, that's not quite it…I only believed you would want…some rules are different than others…" Raoul stammered, trying to express several different (and contradictory) things at once. Christine nearly laughed.

The rest of the meal passed in a haze of idle chatter. Christine nibbled mindlessly at the food; many of the dishes were so extravagant, completely foreign to her. She often found herself gently prodding things with a fork, wondering, "What is this?" After years of the simple food served to the girls in the ballet dormitories, such rich things almost made her gag.

She found herself gazing out the window. Snow drifted playfully to the ground in light little flakes. _Leise rieselt der Schnee_, she thought aimlessly. She found a familiar voice echoing in her mind, one usually firm and strict, now praising her gently for such a clear, perfect pitch at the beginning of the song, even though it started on the "D," that notorious break between the female middle range and high range…

"Christine?"

"Hmm?" She glanced down at her fork, which was halfway to her mouth, and realized that it had probably been in that position for the past few minutes.

"Are you all right?"

The singer nodded hastily. "I am fine. I was just…thinking." _About Erik._

"You're certain?"

Another of Erik's comments flitted across her mind like a hummingbird, one that had been close to her heart lately. _Old wounds are easily reopened…_

"Raoul, do you remember my father?"

He was thrown by the question; he had not expected it. "What sort of a question is that?"

"Do you remember when he died?"

"Well…" Raoul was still a bit baffled. "I heard of it several years ago, that the great violinist Gustave Daaé had passed away…"

"It was more than 'a few years ago,'" Christine corrected. "I was seven. It wasn't so long after I met you." She sat back in her chair, eyes closed. "Have you ever lost anyone close to you, Raoul?"

"You shouldn't speak of your father's death," Raoul cautioned her, shifting uncomfortably in his stiff chair.

"Why not?" The words sounded just as demanding as they had in Christine's head. Normally, that wasn't the case.

"It's…it's better just to move along. It's best to think of…happier times."

_Raoul has always done one of two things: run headlong into trouble without a second thought, or run from it in panic._

"You are saying," she replied icily, "that I should _forget_ my father?"

"Well…" Raoul fidgeted. "Perhaps it would be for the better."

"I see." Christine remembered Erik's emotionless voice that used to chill her and tried to imitate it. Of course, she would never be able to do it perfectly, but she came close enough to make Raoul flinch slightly.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. At least, it seemed silent; Erik's voice still echoed in Christine's head, reminding her that her father's death had left a wound in her heart, and she'd covered it up and left it alone, but it was still there.

When Christine was finished eating, she stood and walked swiftly from the dining hall back to her room without even excusing herself. Confused and rather affronted, Raoul followed her, calling after her.

_I can't even hear what he's saying. Since I've asked him about my father, I keep thinking of what Erik said. My soul mate should be able to listen to me when I need it. Well, if Erik is right, and he usually is, then I still need to grieve for my father. So why will Raoul not listen to me? That night on the roof, when he declared his love for me, he claimed he would protect me. He made it sound like he would do whatever I needed. But he doesn't listen to me! How can he love me when he doesn't even know what I want?_

Back in the guest room, she was about to shut the door when Raoul walked in. Well, in truth, he walked directly into the swinging door.

"Christine! What has gotten into you?"

Christine stood by the window. The massive, heavily embroidered drapes. The sharp sunlight tore into the space like a killing blade. She jerked the curtains loose from their ropes, and they swung heavily into place, blocking the offending light.

"What has happened to you, Little Lotte?" Raoul wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her cheek. "Something is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong with me, Raoul." The comforting warmth she had once gained from his embrace was gone.

"It was that monster, wasn't it?" asked Raoul gently, stroking her arm. "He's done something to you."

"That isn't _true_!" Christine hollered, pulling free of his arms and whipping around to face him. "Why do you assume Erik has hurt me? _You_ don't know him! He was _my_ teacher, _my_ protector for thirteen years! _And don't you dare call him a monster_!"

Raoul blinked, shocked by this fiery young woman that had taken meek little Christine's place. "But, that night on the roof, you were so frightened of him…"

"I fled from Erik like a foolish little girl! I never even asked him for an explanation, or gave him a second chance! I should not have run to you."

"Christine, I tried to _help_ you!" the young nobleman insisted. "You wanted protection from that…from the Opera Ghost, and I gave it to you."

"I know you tried to protect me. You even slept outside my room to guard me, and I did appreciate that. But you also _used_ me, because I was afraid!"

Raoul's eyebrows shot up. "I never used you! What are you speaking of?"

Christine dipped her head, tears pooling behind her tightly shut eyelids. "I was—stupidly—constantly afraid. When I was frightened that way, I was willing to go along with almost any suggestion you made. And I ended up following a suggestion that I never should have! We weren't even engaged at that point!"

Raoul moved forward to quiet her, whispering almost frantically, "I thought it might…distract you, if only briefly, from your fear. I thought you might…enjoy it…"

"A _distraction_? And if I'd become pregnant, you think that would be an even better _distraction_? You took advantage of my fear! You took advantage of _me_!" She turned away from him, pressing her forehead to the stale-smelling drapes.

"Christine, that is completely false!" Raoul's panic-tousled hair swung loosely around his face as he stepped side to side, attempting to catch her eyes. "You consented! Did your precious Erik convince you it was rape when you told him about it?"

"He doesn't know." Her voice was muffled from the curtains. "It was _coercion_, Raoul. You pressured me, and I agreed, but only because I was in a…fragile…sort of state. I know you don't think of it that way, but that's how I feel. Not that you care how I feel!"

"Of course I care!" Desperately, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged him off. "Christine," he tried again, almost pleading, "I love you."

She sighed heavily, as if exhaling lead. "I know. At least, you believe you love me, which, I suppose makes it love. But the person you love is Little Lotte, an older version of the little girl you met on a beach in Rouen years ago. Someone who is just happy company and never causes trouble. But I've grown up, Raoul, and I have my own needs. And I'm sorry, but you've never seemed to want to listen to me."

"I will listen," Raoul insisted. "Christine…give me another chance."

"I already have. It wasn't long after we first…slept together…that I realized what a stupid thing I had—we had—done. But when you asked me to marry you…if you hadn't promised to protect me from Erik, I might have already left you, at least in a romantic sense. But when you proposed to me, I decided to let you have another chance."

"What are you saying? Do you not want to be married?"

Christine faced him, her eyes rimmed with the redness of sorrow. She slipped her engagement ring off of her finger and placed it in Raoul's palm, curling his fingers around it the way she had done for Erik not a few days ago. "No. I'm sorry, Raoul. I know you love me, and you are a good friend of mine. But Erik needs me."

"So you'll return to him just because he's lonely? You don't…love him, do you?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her head hadn't even known it was true; it was her heart, or perhaps her soul, that ordered her lips to move. "Yes, I love him. And I need him almost as much as he needs me. Music is my life, and it is his; we need each other."

Raoul nodded solemnly, tucking the ring in his pocket. "I hope…I hope you are happy with him, Christine."

"Thank you, Raoul." She gave him a sisterly hug, brushing her lips against his cheek. "I hope you find someone you can be happy with as well. Someone more suited to your kind of life. I couldn't survive as the a Vicomtess."

"Are you sure you want to do this? You'd feel safe living with…with Erik?"

She nodded. "He loves me. He wouldn't hurt me, I know it."

"Do you need help with your bags?" Raoul queried resignedly.

"Thank you, yes."

Raoul at least had the sense to help Christine himself, rather than calling for Fabien. They hailed a carriage from the front gate. Christine climbed in, sliding her saddlebags onto the seat before herself.

"Christine?" Raoul touched her hand before closing the door.

"Yes, Raoul?" She looked soberly into his eyes.

"Good luck."

"You too. _Au revoir…mon ami_."

"_Au revoir,_ Little…I mean, Christine."

Raoul carefully shut the carriage's door and strode back to his family's manor as Christine rode off in the direction of the charred, half-demolished opera house.

She held her breath inside taut lungs as the carriage rumbled over the uneven, filthy cobblestones of the Parisian streets. _I know there's no way Erik could have left yet. But what if he's resigned to losing me? What if he doesn't take me back because he…well, what if he's simply unable to get his hopes up again? I've already shattered his heart once, repaired it, then broken it again. And God only knows how much heartbreak he suffered before he even met me. How many times can a heart be destroyed before it's incorrigible?_

The streets rushed by, but to Christine, they seemed to crawl leisurely. She had made her choice at last, yet she was separated from the man she had chosen. Each footstep closer she was to Erik, the faster her heart raced, and she found herself praying that it didn't burst from exertion before she arrived at the opera house.

Christine barely remembered to thank (and pay) the cabbie when the carriage rolled to a halt before the still-smoking, once-majestic edifice. The soubrette stood before the sad, hulking mass of metal, stone and brick, watching thin streams of debris pour from the windows like tears. _I wonder if the opera house can be rebuilt. Oh, I hope so; if not, Erik and I may have to move somewhere else anyway._

She hurried to the opening of the passageway out of which she and Erik had walked a few hours before. Blindly, she staggered through the pitch-black corridor, forced to slow by the horrible visibility and the rough, damp surface of the floor. She clutched her saddlebags to her chest, hoping that Erik had forgotten to re-arm his traps after he himself had come down this tunnel. Luckily for her, he had indeed forgotten.

When the faint, soft beam of light emerged from the utter darkness surrounding her, she bolted for it as fast as she could move while weighted down with her suitcases. When at last she stumbled into the dimly lit splendor of Erik's home, she immediately threw down the heavy, irritating things and scampered for the organ, where Erik would surely be seated.

She was right. He was bent so far over the keyboard that his face nearly brushed the surface of the paper upon which he wrote; he did not notice her approach.

"Erik!" she cried out, her voice strangled with emotion. "I'm here. I'm back."

He barely glanced over his shoulder at her before hunching back over his composition, pressing his fingertips into his temples. When he spoke, Christine could scarcely understand him, for he was talking only to himself. "I was certain this would happen…what I didn't expect was it happening so soon…"

"Erik…" It was almost a plea.

He tipped his head forward even farther, and this time his voice was even softer, less coherent. "There's no one there…she's gone, there's no one there…"

_Oh…he thinks he's hallucinating. Poor man…_

"It's me. Christine. You aren't seeing things." She moved her hand to rest her fingertips on his shoulder, but he flinched away from her, his muscles so tense he was trembling. "Listen to me!"

There was no response from Erik; he only pressed his face into his palms.

She clutched his shoulder tightly. "Have you kept your promise to me? Have you eaten anything since I left?"

He faced her very slowly, his visible eye swollen and red from crying. His expression was half stony, half shocked, as if he were frightened to believe her. Before he had time to move away from her, she leaned forward and curved her right palm gently against his unmasked cheek.

"I am not sure," he rasped, "that a Christine I imagined would be so concerned with what I'd eaten."

She knelt before the bench, keeping her right hand where it was. Erik reached down, tracing the outline of her hair, though still not touching her. "Angel…is it really you?"

Christine clasped his hand and laid it against her cheek. "It's me. I'm here."

He flinched away from her touch, suddenly cold and reclusive. "What is it that you want? Did you leave something here? Do you wish to return that necklace I gave you?"

"No. I wish to return _myself_. Erik, do you not remember this morning when I wouldn't leave? Did it seem like I _wanted _to leave you?"

"I presumed…you would change your mind…you haven't, have you? Is this another trap? Am I to be shot dead any second now?"

"No! Don't you trust me?" Christine cried, reaching for him again.

"I trust you," he said sharply, "to do what is right. It is quite possible that the right thing is to kill me."

She shouted in dismay, "You're still thinking that way! Have you not heard anything I said over the past three days? I want you _alive_! What kind of heartless wench would I be if I turned on you that way after all you've been through?" This time he did not avoid her touch when she laid her hand on the uncovered side of his face; instead, he placed his own hand over hers.

"Perhaps you'd see it as a mercy killing," he replied with a wry smile.

"No. There's hope in this world for you yet," the young soprano whispered.

"Have you returned because you wish to? Or have you returned out of sympathy?"

"Not out of sympathy. But _I_ wanted to come back."

"You shouldn't have," Erik responded heavily. "Christine, you think you could be _happy_ here? Stuck in this miserable cave with no one but me to keep you company? Do you think you could be _safe_?"

"Safe?" Christine repeated, mystified. Even in madness, even in fury, he'd never caused her any harm. He seemed to be able to direct his infamous temper away from her, if not control it. So why would she be in danger?

He stood quickly and gracefully, and she followed him, used to this sort of gesture. His hands grasped her arms firmly, not really to take hold of her, but to support himself. He was leaning over her, shoulders bowed, as if he would fall without her presence. "There is a fine line between madness and brilliance, Christine, and sometimes I fear I've already crossed it. If I were to truly cross it, for good…" He broke off, dropping his head so she could not see his expression. "I could never forgive myself if I hurt you in the process."

She lifted his chin with her fist. If he were doing the same thing to her, he would only have to cup his hand beneath her chin and she would raise her head, but Christine had yet to discover how he did that. "You underestimate me. I need you, Erik, but you need my help as well. I can keep you on the right side of the line, or at least I'll try."

A faint smile crossed Erik's lips, or perhaps Christine imagined it. "You've grown up. When did this happen?"

"Yesterday, I believe." She smiled tremulously. "But I'm not completely grown yet."

"You're closer than I would have imagined. I'm proud of you." He moved one hand to her dark glossy curls and began stroking them. He seemed to find touching Christine's hair therapeutic.

Now it was her turn to lean against him, laying her palms on his collarbone and resting her cheek against his thin chest. "I couldn't be happy with Raoul. He…he either rushes blindly into confrontation, or else ignores it, and I can't live with no one to listen when something is wrong…"

"I might have told you that about him. Most noblemen are bootless that way."

Raoul's hurried, dismissive words floated back into her mind, the ones she'd heard when she had tried to speak with him about her father's death. Her fingers curled inward, clutching the fabric of his jacket, and her eyes shut tightly against the stinging heat of unshed tears.

Erik, of course, noticed. "Angel? What troubles you?"

"I remembered what you said about my father's death…I mentioned it…"

"He didn't listen to you."

"No. And I needed someone to _listen_. I know you can listen to me…right?"

Erik took her into a genuine embrace, full and firm, yet still gentle. "Of course. My only question is, do you need that listener now?"

She nodded as best she could with her head still pressed against his heart. "You see why I need to stay with you? I will listen to you, and you to me." Her voice quavered in midair, the tremors of sorrow clearly noticeable.

"And I believe some of said listening is in order now. Come." He released her from their embrace and slipped his hand into hers. She followed him wordlessly, not even asking where they were headed. _Remarkable…he suddenly forgets his own sorrow when he sees that I need him. I only hope I will be able to be that strong in return._

She soon discovered their destination. It was a room that she had once explored, shaped roughly like a cylinder, with a surprisingly high ceiling. The greatest oddity of the room was the fireplace in the west wall; how could there be a fireplace underground? Erik had explained to her that small flues had been drilled in the walls, and they eventually reached the outside, so the smoke moved through the scores of tiny flues rather than a chimney.

A large circular white rug with long, luxurious fibers sat on the floor before the (surprisingly) lit fire. (Although, who knew what Erik had been thinking just after Christine's departure, or why he would need a fire?) Erik sat cross-legged on the carpet with Christine leaning against him. She gazed mutely into the fire, the flickering and curling flames fluttering in the stills of her eyes. The voice of her teacher, her angel, came down soothingly from above her. "Tell me, Christine, about your father. Tell me what that boy couldn't stand to hear." His hand trailed down her upper arm.

"I was seven." Christine swallowed hard. "My mother had died a few years before, so my father…was all I had." She stopped, taking a few slow breaths to calm herself.

"Go on."

"He was my only friend. I knew Raoul from one summer, but only one summer…my father was my real companion. He used to read to me, teach me songs…he played his violin for me almost every night."

"You were fortunate to have him for that time. Your younger childhood was rather idyllic, really…I can imagine what it must have been like for you when tragedy struck. But I will let you speak of that…continue, my child, I'm listening."

Christine shut her eyes. "He had been sick for a while. I noticed…I saw him coughing, I noticed he was getting thinner…but I was just a little girl, I believed him when he said he was all right. I wonder…if I'd paid more attention, if I'd known…" Her body trembled in shame and agony, and Erik slipped his hand beneath her dark mane to caress her scalp in that way she found so comforting.

"There was nothing you could have done, my angel. You were…five years old? Six? Too young to take any responsibility, certainly."

"I remember when he became very sick." Christine's breath hitched in something like a whimper. "He foresaw it. I didn't know why we went to the hospital, but it was only a few days after he was checked in that…he took a turn for the worst…" She fought back a sob, and she felt Erik begin to stroke her hair again. "That was what one of the nurses told me. She leaned down towards me and said to me, 'Miss Daaé, I'm afraid your father has taken a turn for the worst.' And I remember it took me a few moments to understand, and I said, 'Do you mean he is going to die?'" She pressed her face into his chest so hard her nose was crushed to one side.

"What did she say?"

"She…she said…" Christine's mouth moved, but no sound resulted. Erik waited patiently for her to speak, still running one hand through her hair. "She said, 'I'm afraid so, little miss.' Or something…something like that…I barely heard…I couldn't move, I couldn't say anything…I couldn't even cry! I was just…shocked."

"Did you cry? Ever?"

"No, I was…I was always quiet. I didn't…I didn't care what else was happening, I was just…I don't know…when I came to the opera house, I was like…like a doll…I didn't…if I ever came close to crying, I just went back to being quiet…"

_Poor child, she's barely coherent now. It sounds like she never even let herself feel sorrow. She's talking about herself as a doll; well, that sounds about right. When she first came here, I would never have guessed that she had just suffered so much. She was always so calm, almost apathetic._ "Why did you never cry, little one?"

She made a sickly gulping sound when she swallowed. "I…I don't know."

"Did you not feel sorrow?"

"I…of course I did! I just…I didn't _let _myself feel it."

"Were you ashamed?"

"Yes. I was afraid. I'd never…never had a reason to feel that way, and I was…I thought…I couldn't."

"Angel, look at me. Look at me."

She did, tears already cutting glistening tracks down her snow-white cheeks."You had no reason to be ashamed. You were a seven-year-old girl who had just had her world turned upside down. You had no reason to fight back your tears."

Christine tucked her head under his chin, a sob ripping itself from her throat. The cry sounded as if it caused her pain rather than relieving it.

"Even now, it's all right, Christine." He moved his hand up and down her quaking spine. "You have no need to be ashamed."

"I'm twenty years old, Erik!" She fisted her hands in the material of his shirt. "I shouldn't be weeping like a little girl!"

"Weeping like a little girl? You never wept when you were a little girl. You can cry now. You think I will laugh at you, or something absurd like that?"

Christine shook her head slowly. "No." She cried out again, sounding closer to the edge than before.

"Do not be ashamed to cry. Your father is worthy of your tears, right?"

"Yes! When…when he died…I was…I was right beside him, I _saw_, I _saw _him die, just after he'd promised me he'd send me the Angel of Music…I didn't want any Angel of Music, I wanted _him_! And he was gone…his eyes closed, and I knew, I knew he was gone…I knew I was _alone_…" Unconsciously, her arms snaked around Erik's neck, clinging like steel chains. He returned her embrace, encircling her completely. She sank into the hug like a stone, accepting, _needing_ the consoling contact. "I was _alone_! I couldn't cry, but I couldn't _stand_ it…"

"It's all right, my angel. You can cry now."

Hot tears burned as they poured uncontrollably down her face. Her hands dug so hard into Erik's shoulders she feared her nails would tear through his clothing and into his skin. She was sobbing, hard, a sound of absolute grief. Instead of hearing her own voice, she heard the cries of a seven-year-old girl, the seven-year-old girl Christine had never had the chance to be. She saw herself, a sodden bundle of tears and distress, kneeling in some blackened, desolate place, crying a child's unashamed wail.

Christine wept in darkness for a stretch of time that seemed endless, only vaguely aware of some comforting presence close nearby, so even as she wordlessly lamented her father's death, she knew someone would be waiting for her when she surfaced from her grief.

When at last her tears subsided, information from the outside world trickled into her brain with the slowness of molasses. She could feel her arms and legs and head and torso, her toes and her fingers, and the light quick pulsating of her heart. Her body felt supple and weightless, as if there had been boulders strapped to her back and they had been suddenly cut away.

She became aware of a pair of arms holding her, thin and strong, cradling her close. She was being rocked gently, back and forth, a slow, quiescent rhythm.

"Erik?"

"Yes, my angel?" His warm, rich voice was lowered to a volume that would have only been audible to Christine had there been anyone else there.

"Erik?" she whispered again, tightening her arms around his neck. She realized that he must have picked her up while she was crying, for one of his arms was wrapped beneath her back, and the other supported the bends of her knees. Her head lolled against his shoulder. It was a position of almost complete dependence on her part, but it was wonderfully comforting.

"I am here, Christine. Are you all right?"

A heavy, lengthy sigh fluttered past her lips. "Yes."

"How do you feel?"

"Like…the weight of the world is gone." Christine felt weary and soft, content, but incapable of creative phrasing. She exhaled again. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"You once told me that crying too much was not healthy…I might sicken."

"Perhaps it isn't the best thing for your body." When she looked up at him, he stroked her cheek with one finger, and then dried her tears with his sleeve. "But you, your soul, very much needed this."

"Thank you," she whispered. "I will…still miss my father now?"

"He was your _father_, Christine." Of course, Erik never knew his father, but Christine's childhood had been more…normal. "You'll never stop missing him. But it will hurt less. And trust me…trying to simply hide or forget troubling things does not work."

"I trust you." _After all, you've seen more horror than any man should. _Christine laid her hand on Erik's heart, the heart that had been broken so many times, that she had broken again when Erik had been asking her to help heal it. "Does this mean I will stay with you?"

"At this point, angel, I don't believe I could make you leave. And I don't believe I could stand losing you again."

"Good." She laid her head down again, and Erik bent over slightly, placing his forehead against hers.

Something was wrong. Christine could feel the cold porcelain of Erik's mask against her skin. She didn't want a mask holding her, she wanted _Erik_ holding her. So she reached up to trail her fingertips over the mask, almost as a warning, before slipping her fingers under the cold white surface to lift it off.

"Christine." He stopped her with the single word, his voice tense, almost frightened. "What are you doing?"

"I don't want you wearing your mask. Not right now. It feels unnatural, not like you."

"You are not…afraid?" He sounded more afraid than she might be.

"I have been unafraid of your unmasked face for some time now."

"Ah, yes, I remember…you were more frightened of the distortion that lies in my soul."

She winced. "Please don't mention that. I said many things that night that I wish I could take back."

"I apologize."

"So will you let me remove your mask?" The singer placed her small hand on his normally shaped cheek.

"Angel, are you certain you wish to do this?"

Instead of replying with words, Christine gently pried the white half-mask away from Erik's face and placed it on the floor. Reflexively, he turned away from her so she could not see his deformity.

"Erik, look at me."

He obeyed her slowly, as if it took all his strength to turn his head toward her. His eyes were closed, likely so he wouldn't have to see her expression. Christine studied the deformed side of his face. In some places, the flesh was raised, making red misshapen ridges over his cheek and brow. In other places, there was not enough flesh or skin there, and Christine could see the pulsing of small blue veins, or even muscle where there was no skin at all. _I'm not surprised he keeps his mask on; if he didn't keep this covered, he might get an infection_.

She reached up to caress his deformed face with her fingertips. "Does that hurt?"

"Only in some places." His voice was as taut as a violin string about to snap because some incompetent had tuned the instrument badly.

"How did this happen? Were you…born with this?"

"I was."

Christine leaned up and brushed her lips against his malformed cheek.

"Christine…"

"Shh." She tucked a strand of his dark hair behind his ear before moving her hand back to his shoulder, and he did not flinch. But when she leaned up to kiss him, he turned his head away from her again.

Almost panicked, he asked her, "What are you doing?"

"You didn't expect me to kiss you with your mask on, did you?"

Christine had seen Erik as furious, heartbroken, even mad, but she had never seen him this terrified. "Christine, I…I've never…except for that one night, four days ago, when you…"

"It's all right. I can teach you." Before he could protest again, Christine leaned up and pressed her mouth lightly against his. Their kiss was gentle, a simple, innocent touching of flesh upon flesh. "You see?" said Christine softly when she had pulled away. "It's not so difficult."

"I see." He sounded a bit shocked, but Christine did not laugh. He had experienced so little affection over the course of his life; it wasn't surprising that he could barely bring himself to kiss her. Not to mention he had his mask off. That had to be difficult for him too.

"You will get more used to it," she assured him.

"So I take it you are no longer frightened of what lies here?" He placed a hand over his heart.

"Well, let me see." She bent down to press her ear against Erik's chest. She closed her eyes and listened for a few moments before announcing her diagnosis. "Just a perfectly normal heartbeat," she declared, looking up at him almost defiantly. "No monster here."

"If you insist." Erik kissed the top of her head.

Christine tucked her head underneath his chin once more. "If your arms get tired, you can set me down on the rug, but I don't want you to let go of me."

"I have no wish to let go of you." It was true, quite true. In all honesty, Erik could barely believe that he was holding Christine so closely, and that she wanted the embrace. Surely it was against the natural order of things for a murderer to be holding an angel in his arms, and Erik kept waiting for a lightning bolt to strike him dead. No lightning bolt came, though, and he began wondering if perhaps Christine were indeed right about his not being a monster.

"Good. Because I must admit, I feel very…at home…right now, as cliché as it sounds."

"Well, normally clichés make me cringe, but I have no qualms about the particular cliché you have just employed."

Christine giggled softly, and Erik kissed her forehead again. "Welcome home, Christine."

* * *

Ayesha sat in the doorway, sulking, watching her human and that wispy little girl sit together by the fire. Erik was holding the fearful human wench like he used to hold _her_. Ayesha's ears bent backward with displeasure, and when her human kissed the girl's forehead, she turned and trotted away in disgust. She had a feeling that things were about to change, and change greatly, and Ayesha wasn't going to like it at all.

* * *

Freakin' _Fin._

Author's Freakin' Notes: YES, IT'S FREAKIN' DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YAAAAY! It took three freakin' quarters of a freakin' year to finish this, and now it's freakin' DONE!!!!

Sigh. Well, now I'm going to try to get this published by one of those self-publishing Web sites like lulupublishing. After I edit this, that is. I didn't do much editing in this chappie because I was so bent on just finishing it, so forgive all the typos etc.

IT'S FREAKIN' DONE!!!!!!!

Sorry, I'm just really happy. :-)


End file.
